LETTERS 

TO 

A  FRIEND 

by 
John  Muir 


These  letters  of  the  late  John  Muir,  now  given  to  the  pub 
lic  for  the  first  time,  will  be  of  particular  interest  to  the 
many  admirers  of  his  work.  Most  of  them  were  written 
from  Yosemite  Valley  and  give  a  good  idea  of  the  life  Muir 
led  there  as  well  as  reveal  more  of  his  personality  than  is  to 
be  found  in  his  more  formal  writings. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Bequest  of 
LOUIS ANA  SCOTT  SHUMAN 


^A*-*<— • 


Letters  to  a  Friend 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Written  to  Mrs.  Ezra  S.  Carr 
1866—1879 

By 

John  Muir 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

Sitoewfoe 

1915 


COPYRIGHT,   1915,  BY  WANDA  MUIR  HANNA 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


THIS    EDITION    CONSISTS    OF    300    COPIES 


Prefatory  Note 

HEN  John  Muir  was  a  student  in  the 
University  of  Wisconsin  he  was  a  fre 
quent  caller  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Ezra  S.  Carr. 
The  kindness  shown  him  there,  and  especially 
the  sympathy  which  Mrs.  Carr,  as  a  botanist 
and  a  lover  of  nature,  felt  in  the  young  man's  in 
terests  and  aims,  led  to  the  formation  of  a  lasting 
friendship.  He  regarded  Mrs.  Carr,  indeed,  as 
his  "spiritual  mother,"  and  his  letters  to  her  in 
later  years  are  the  outpourings  of  a  sensitive 
spirit  to  one  who  he  felt  thoroughly  understood 
and  sympathized  with  him.  These  letters  are 
therefore  peculiarly  revealing  of  their  writer's 
personality.  Most  of  them  were  written  from 
the  Yosemite  Valley,  and  they  give  a  good  no 
tion  of  the  life  Muir  led  there,  sheep-herding, 
guiding,  and  tending  a  sawmill  at  intervals  to 
earn  his  daily  bread,  but  devoting  his  real  self 
to  an  ardent  scientific  study  of  glacial  geology 
and  a  joyous  and  reverent  communion  with 
Nature. 


LETTERS  TO  A  FRIEND 

"The  Hollow,"  January  21,  1866. 

YOUR  last,  written  in  the  delicious  quiet  of  a 
Sabbath  in  the  country,  has  been  received  and 
read  a  good  many  times.  I  was  interested  with 
the  description  you  draw  of  your  sermon.  You 
speak  of  such  services  like  one  who  appreciated 
and  relished  them.  But  although  the  page  of 
Nature  is  so  replete  with  divine  truth,  it  is 
silent  concerning  the  fall  of  man  and  the  won 
ders  of  Redeeming  Love.  Might  she  not  have 
been  made  to  speak  as  clearly  and  eloquently 
of  these  things  as  she  now  does  of  the  character 
and  attributes  of  God  ?  It  may  be  a  bad  symp 
tom,  but  I  will  confess  that  I  take  more  intense 
delight  from  reading  the  power  and  goodness  of 
God  from  "the  things  which  are  made"  than 
from  the  Bible.  The  two  books,  however,  har 
monize  beautifully,  and  contain  enough  of  di 
vine  truth  for  the  study  of  all  eternity.  It  is  so 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

much  easier  for  us  to  employ  our  faculties  upon 
these  beautiful  tangible  forms  than  to  exercise 
a  simple,  humble  living  faith  such  as  you  so  well 
describe  as  enabling  us  to  reach  out  joyfully 
into  the  future  to  expect  what  is  promised  as 
a  thing  of  to-morrow. 

I  wish,  Mrs.  Carr,  that  I  could  see  your 
mosses  and  ferns  and  lichens.  I  am  sure  that 
you  must  be  happier  than  anybody  else.  You 
have  so  much  less  of  winter  than  others;  your 
parlor  garden  is  verdant  and  in  bloom  all  the 
year. 

I  took  your  hint  and  procured  ten  or  twelve 
species  of  moss  all  in  fruit,  also  a  club-moss,  a 
fern,  and  some  liverworts  and  lichens.  I  have 
also  a  box  of  thyme.  I  would  go  a  long  way  to 
see  your  herbarium,  more  especially  your  ferns 
and  mosses.  These  two  are  by  far  the  most 
interesting  of  all  the  natural  orders  to  me.  The 
shaded  hills  and  glens  of  Canada  are  richly  or 
namented  with  these  lovely  plants.  Aspidium 
spinulosum  is  common  everywhere,  so  also  is 
A.  marginal*.  A.  aculeatum,  A.  Lonchitis,  and 

[2   ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

A.  acrostichoides  are  also  abundant  in  many 
places.  I  found  specimens  of  most  of  the  other 
aspidiums,  but  those  I  have  mentioned  are  more 
common.  Cystopteris  bulbifera  grows  in  every 
arbor-vitae  shade  in  company  with  the  beau 
tiful  and  fragrant  Linncza  borealis.  Botrychium 
lunarioides  is  a  common  fern  in  many  parts  of 
Canada.  Osmunda  regalis  is  far  less  common 
here  than  in  Wisconsin.  I  found  it  in  only  two 
localities.  Six  Claytoniana  only  in  one  place 
near  the  Niagara  Falls.  The  delicate  Adiantum 
trembles  upon  every  hillside.  Struthiopteris  Ger- 
manica  grows  to  a  great  height  in  open  places 
in  arbor-vitae  and  black  ash  swamps.  Campto- 
sorus  rhizophyllus  and  Scolopendrium  officina- 
rum  I  found  in  but  one  place,  amid  the  wet 
limestone  rocks  of  Owen  Sound.  There  are 
many  species  of  sedge  common  here  which  I  do 
not  remember  having  seen  in  Wisconsin.  Ca 
lypso  borealis  is  a  lovely  plant  found  in  a  few 
places  in  dark  hemlock  woods.  But  this  is  an 
endless  thing;  I  may  as  well  stop  here. 
I  have  been  very  busy  of  late  making  prac- 
[3] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

tical  machinery.  I  like  my  work  exceedingly 
well,  but  would  prefer  inventions  which  would 
require  some  artistic  as  well  as  mechanical  skill. 
I  invented  and  put  in  operation  a  few  days  ago 
an  attachment  for  a  self-acting  lathe,  which  has 
increased  its  capacity  at  least  one  third.  We 
are  now  using  it  to  turn  broom-handles,  and  as 
these  useful  articles  may  now  be  made  cheaper, 
and  as  cleanliness  is  one  of  the  cardinal  virtues, 
I  congratulate  myself  in  having  done  something 
like  a  true  philanthropist  for  the  real  good  of 
mankind  in  general.  What  say  you?  I  have 
also  invented  a  machine  for  making  rake-teeth, 
and  another  for  boring  for  them  and  driving 
them,  and  still  another  for  making  the  bows, 
still  another  used  in  making  the  handles,  still 
another  for  bending  them,  so  that  rakes  may 
now  be  made  nearly  as  fast  again.  Farmers  will 
be  able  to  produce  grain  at  a  lower  rate,  the 
poor  get  more  bread  to  eat.  Here  is  more  phil 
anthropy  ;  is  it  not  ?  I  sometimes  feel  as  though 
I  was  losing  time  here,  but  I  am  at  least  receiv 
ing  my  first  lessons  in  practical  mechanics,  and 

[4] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

as  one  of  the  firm  here  is  a  millwright,  and  as 
I  am  permitted  to  make  as  many  machines  as 
I  please  and  to  remodel  those  now  in  use,  the 
school  is  a  pretty  good  one. 

I  wish  that  Allie  and  Henry  B.  could  come  to 
see  me  every  day,  there  are  no  children  in  our 
family  here,  and  I  miss  them  very  much.  They 
would  like  to  see  the  machinery,  and  I  could 
turn  wooden  balls  and  tops,  rake-bows  before 
being  bent  would  make  excellent  canes,  and  if 
they  should  need  crutches  broom-handles  and 
rake-handles  would  answer.  I  have  not  heard 
from  Henry  for  a  long  time.  I  suppose  that 
this  evening  finds  you  in  your  pleasant  library 
amid  books  and  plants  and  butterflies.  Are 
you  really  successful  in  keeping  happy,  spor 
tive  "winged  blossoms"  in  such  weather  as 
this? 

One  of  the  finest  snowstorms  is  raging  now ; 
the  roaring  wind  thick  with  snow  rushes  cruelly 
through  the  desolate  trees.  Our  rapid  stream 
that  so  short  a  time  ago  shone  and  twinkled  in 
the  hazy  air  bearing  away  the  nuts  and  painted 
[5] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

leaves  of  autumn  is  now  making  a  doleful  noise 
as  it  gropes  its  way  doubtfully  and  sulkily  amid 
heaps  of  snow  and  broken  ice. 

The  weather  here  is  unusually  cold.  How  do 
matters  stand  at  the  University?  Can  it  be 
that  the  Doctor  is  really  going  to  become  prac 
tical  farmer?  He  will  have  time  to  compose 
excellent  lectures  while  following  the  plow  and 
harrow  or  when  shearing  his  sheep. 

I  thank  you  for  your  long,  good  letter.  Those 
who  are  in  a  lonely  place  and  far  from  home 
know  how  to  appreciate  a  friendly  letter.  Re 
member  me  to  the  Doctor  and  to  all  my  friends 
and  believe  me 

Yours  with  gratitude, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

[1866  or  1867.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
I  have  not  before  sent  these  feelings  and 
thoughts   to  anybody,  but  I  know  that  I  am 
speaking  to  one  who  by  long  and  deep  com 
munion  with  Nature  understands  them,  and 
[6] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

can  tell  me  what  is  true  or  false  and  unworthy 
in  my  experiences. 

The  ease  with  which  you  have  read  my  mind 
from  hints  taken  from  letters  to  my  child  friends 
gives  me  confidence  to  write. 

Thank  you  for  the  compliment  of  the  great 
picture-frame.  That  is  at  least  one  invention 
that  I  should  not  have  discovered, —  but  the 
picture  is  but  an  insect,  an  animalcule.  I  have 
stood  by  a  majestic  pine,  witnessing  its  high 
branches  waving  "in  sign  of  worship"  or  in  con 
verse  with  the  spirit  of  the  storms  of  autumn, 
till  I  forgot  my  very  existence,  and  thought  my 
self  unworthy  to  be  made  a  leaf  of  such  a  tree. 

What  work  do  you  use  in  the  study  of  the 
Fungi  ?  and  where  can  I  get  a  copy  ?  I  think  of 
your  description  of  these  "  little  children  of  the 
vegetable  kingdom"  whenever  I  meet  any  of 
them.  I  am  busy  with  the  mosses  and  liver 
worts,  but  find  difficulty  in  procuring  a  suitable 
lens.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  Climacium  Amer- 
icanum,  a  common  moss  here  but  seldom  in  fruit. 

I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  loss  at  the  Uni- 
[71 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

versity  of  so  valuable  a  man  from  such  a  cause. 
I  hope  that  the  wheels  of  your  institution  are 
again  in  motion. 

I  have  not  yet,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  found  "The 
Stone  Mason  of  Saint  Point,"  though  I  have 
sought  for  it  a  great  deal.  By  whom  is  it  pub 
lished  ? 

Please  remember  me  to  my  friends.  I  often 
wish  myself  near  the  Doctor  with  my  difficul 
ties  in  science.  Tell  Allie  Mr.  Muir  does  not 
forget  him. 

Trout's  Mills,  near  Meaford, 

September  I3th,  [1866.] 

Your  precious  letter  with  its  burden  of  cheer 
and  good  wishes  has  come  to  our  hollow,  and 
has  done  for  me  that  work  of  sympathy  and 
encouragement  which  I  know  you  kindly  wished 
it  to  do.  It  came  at  a  time  when  much  needed, 
for  I  am  subject  to  lonesomeness  at  times.  Ac 
cept,  then,  my  heartfelt  gratitude  —  would  that 
I  could  make  better  return ! 

I  am  sorry  over  the  loss  of  Professor  Stirling's 
letter,  for  I  waited  and  wearied  for  it  a  long 
[  8  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

time.  I  have  been  keeping  up  an  irregular 
course  of  study  since  leaving  Madison,  but  with 
no  great  success.  I  do  not  believe  that  study, 
especially  of  the  Natural  Sciences,  is  incom 
patible  with  ordinary  attention  to  business; 
still  I  seem  to  be  able  to  do  but  one  thing  at  a 
time.  Since  undertaking  a  month  or  two  ago 
to  invent  new  machinery  for  our  mill,  my  mind 
seems  to  so  bury  itself  in  the  work  that  I  am 
fit  for  but  little  else;  and  then  a  lifetime  is  so 
little  a  time  that  we  die  ere  we  get  ready  to  live. 
I  would  like  to  go  to  college,  but  then  I  have  to 
say  to  myself,  "You  will  die  ere  you  can  do 
anything  else."  I  should  like  to  invent  useful 
machinery,  but  it  comes,  "You  do  not  wish  to 
spend  your  lifetime  among  machines  and  you 
will  die  ere  you  can  do  anything  else."  I  should 
like  to  study  medicine  that  I  might  do  my  part 
in  helping  human  misery,  but  again  it  comes, 
"You  will  die  ere  you  are  ready  or  able  to  do 
so."  How  intensely  I  desire  to  be  a  Humboldt ! 
but  again  the  chilling  answer  is  reiterated ;  but 
could  we  but  live  a  million  of  years,  then  how 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

delightful  to  spend  in  perfect  contentment  so 
many  thousand  years  in  quiet  study  in  college, 
as  many  amid  the  grateful  din  of  machines,  as 
many  among  human  pain,  so  many  thousand 
in  the  sweet  study  of  Nature  among  the  dingles 
and  dells  of  Scotland,  and  all  the  other  less  im 
portant  parts  of  our  world !  Then  perhaps  might 
we,'with  at  least  a  show  of  reason, "  shuffle  off  this 
mortal  coil"  and  look  back  upon  our  star  with 
something  of  satisfaction;!  should  be  ashamed 
—  if  shame  might  be  in  the  other  world  —  if 
any  of  the  powers,  virtues,  essences,  etc.,  should 
ask  me  for  common  knowledge  concerning  our 
world  which  I  could  not  bestow.  But  away 
with  this  aged  structure  and  we  are  back  to  our 
handful  of  hasty  years  half  gone,  all  of  course 
for  the  best  did  we  but  know  all  of  the  Crea 
tor's  plan  concerning  us.  In  our  higher  state 
of  existence  we  shall  have  time  and  intellect 
for  study.  Eternity,  with  perhaps  the  whole  un 
limited  creation  of  God  as  our  field,  should 
satisfy  us,  and  make  us  patient  and  trustful, 
while  we  pray  with  the  Psalmist,  "Teach  us  to 
[  10  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

number  our  days  that  we  may  apply  our  hearts 
unto  wisdom." 

I  was  struck  with  your  remarks  about  our 
real  home  of  stillness  and  peace.  How  little 
does  the  outer  and  noisy  world  in  general  know 
of  that  "real  home"  and  real  inner  life !  Happy 
indeed  they  who  have  a  friend  to  whom  they 
can  unmask  the  workings  of  their  real  life,  sure 
of  sympathy  and  forbearance ! 

I  sent  for  the  book  which  you  recommend; 
I  have  just  been  reading  a  short  sketch  of  the 
life  of  the  mother  of  Lamartine. 

You  say  about  the  humble  life  of  our  Sav 
iour  and  about  the  trees  gathering  in  the  sun 
shine.  These  are  beautiful  things. 

What  you  say  respecting  the  littleness  of  the 
number  who  are  called  to  "the  pure  and  deep 
communion  of  the  beautiful,  all-loving  Nature," 
is  particularly  true  of  the  hardworking,  hard- 
drinking,  stolid  Canadians.  In  vain  is  the  glo 
rious  chart  of  God  in  Nature  spread  out  for 
them.  So  many  acres  chopped  is  their  motto, 
as  they  grub  away  amid  the  smoke  of  the  mag- 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

nificent  forest  trees,  black  as  demons  and  mate 
rial  as  the  soil  they  move  upon.  I  often  think 
of  the  Doctor's  lecture  upon  the  condition  of  the 
different  races  of  men  as  controlled  by  physical 
agencies.  Canada,  though  abounding  in  the  ele 
ments  of  wealth,  is  too  difficult  to  subdue  to 
permit  the  first  few  generations  to  arrive  at 
any  great  intellectual  development.  In  my  long 
rambles  last  summer  I  did  not  find  a  single 
person  who  knew  anything  of  botany  and  but 
a  few  who  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word ;  and 
wherein  lay  the  charm  that  could  conduct  a  man 
who  might  as  well  be  gathering  mammon  so 
many  miles  through  these  fastnesses  to  suffer 
hunger  &nd  exhaustion  was  with  them  never 
to  be  discovered.  Do  not  these  answer  well  to 
the  person  described  by  the  poet  in  these  lines? 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  nothing  more." 

I  thank  Dr.  Carr  for  his  kind  remembrance 
of  me,  but  still  more  for  the  good  patience  he 
had  with  so  inept  a  scholar. 
[  12] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

We  remember  in  a  peculiar  way  those  who 
first  gave  us  the  story  of  Redeeming  Love  from 
the  great  book  of  Revelation,  and  I  shall  not 
forget  the  Doctor,  who  first  laid  before  me  the 
great  book  of  Nature,  and  though  I  have  taken 
so  little  from  his  hand  he  has  at  least  shown 
me  where  those  mines  of  priceless  knowledge 
lie  and  how  to  reach  them.  O  how  frequently, 
Mrs.  Carr,  when  lonely  and  wearied,  have  I 
wished  that  like  some  hungry  worm  I  could 
creep  into  that  delightful  kernel  of  your  house, 
your  library,  with  its  portraits  of  scientific  men, 
and  so  bountiful  a  store  of  their  sheaves  amid 
the  blossom  and  verdure  of  your  little  kingdom 
of  plants,  luxuriant  and  happy  as  though  hold 
ing  their  leaves  to  the  open  sky  of  the  most 
flower-loving  zone  in  the  world ! 

That  "sweet  day"  did  as  you  wished  reach 
our  hollow,  and  another  is  with  us  now.  The 
sky  has  the  haze  of  autumn,  and  excepting  the 
aspen  not  a  tree  has  motion.  Upon  our  enclos 
ing  wall  of  verdure  new  tints  appear,  the  gor 
geous  dyes  of  autumn  are  to  be  plainly  seen,  and 
[  13] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  forest  seems  to  have  found  out  that  again 
its  leaf  must  fade.  Our  stream,  too,  has  a  less 
cheerful  sound,  and  as  it  bears  its  foam-bells 
pensively  away  from  the  shallow  rapids  it  seems 
to  feel  that  summer  is  past. 

You  propose,  Mrs.  Carr,  an  exchange  of 
thoughts,  for  which  I  thank  you  very  sincerely. 
This  will  be  a  means  of  pleasure  and  improve 
ment  which  I  could  not  have  hoped  ever  to 
have  been  possessed  of,  but  then  here  is  the 
difficulty:  I  feel  I  am  altogether  incapable  of 
properly  conducting  a  correspondence  with  one 
so  much  above  me.  We  are,  indeed,  as  you 
say,  students  in  the  same  life  school,  but  in  very 
different  classes.  I  am  but  an  alpha  novice 
in  those  sciences  which  you  have  studied  and 
loved  so  long.  If,  however,  you  are  willing  in 
this  to  adopt  the  plan  that  our  Saviour  endeav 
ored  to  beat  into  the  stingy  Israelites,  viz.,  to 
"give,  hoping  for  nothing  again,"  all  will  be 
well;  and  as  long  as  your  letters  resemble  this 
one  before  me,  which  you  have  just  written, 
in  genus,  order,  cohort,  class,  province,  or  king- 
[  14] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

dom,  be  assured  that  by  way  of  reply  you  shall 
at  least  receive  an  honest  "Thank  you." 

Tell  Allie  that  Mr.  Muir  thanks  him  for  his 
pretty  flowers  and  would  like  to  see  him,  also 
that  I  have  a  story  for  him  which  I  shall  tell 
some  other  time. 

Please  remember  me  to  my  friends,  and 
now,  hoping  to  receive  a  letter  from  you  at 
least  semi-occasionally,  I  remain 

Yours  with  gratitude, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

Address:  — 
Meaford  P.  O., 
County  Grey, 
Canada  West. 

April  3rd,  [1867.] 

You  have,  of  course,  heard  of  my  calamity. 

The  sunshine  and  the  winds  are  working  in 
all  the  gardens  of  God,  but  /  —  I  am  lost. 

I  am  shut  in  darkness.  My  hard,  toil-tem 
pered  muscles  have  disappeared,  and  I  am  fee 
ble  and  tremulous  as  an  ever-sick  woman. 

Please  tell  the  Butlers  that  their  precious 
sympathy  has  reached  me. 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  have  read  your  "Stone  Mason"  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure.  I  send  it  with  this 
and  will  write  my  thoughts  upon  it  when  I 
can. 

My  friends  here  are  kind  beyond  what  I  can 
tell  and  do  much  to  shorten  my  immense  blank 
days. 

I  send  no  apology  for  so  doleful  a  note  be 
cause  I  feel,  Mrs.  Carr,  that  you  will  appreciate 
my  feelings. 

Most  cordially, 

J.  MUIR. 

Sunday,  April  6th,  [1867.] 

Your  precious  letter  of  the  I5th  reached  me 
last  night.  By  accident  it  was  nearly  lost. 

I  cannot  tell  you,  Mrs.  Carr,  how  much  I  ap 
preciate  your  sympathy  and  all  of  these  kind 
thoughts  of  cheer  and  substantial  consolation 
which  you  have  stored  for  me  in  this  letter. 

I  am  much  better  than  when  I  wrote  you; 
can  now  sit  up  about  all  day  and  in  a  room 
partly  lighted. 

f  16  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Your  Doctor  says,  "The    aqueous    humor 
may  be  restored/'  How?  By  nature  or  by  art? 

The  position  of  my  wound 
will  be  seen  in  this  figure. 

The  eye  is  pierced  just  where 
the  cornea  meets  the  sclerotic 
coating.  I  do  not  know  the  depth  of  the  wound 
or  its  exact  direction.  Sight  was  completely 
gone  from  the  injured  eye  for  the  first  few  days, 
and  my  physician  said  it  would  be  ever  gone, 
but  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  on  the  fourth 
or  fifth  day  I  could  see  a  little  with  it.  Sight 
continued  to  increase  for  a  few  days,  but  for 
the  last  three  weeks  it  has  not  perceptibly  in 
creased  or  diminished. 

I  called  in  a  Dr.  Parvin  lately,  said  to  be 
a  very  skillful  oculist  and  of  large  experience 
both  here  and  in  Europe.  He  said  that  he 
thought  the  iris  permanently  injured;  that  the 
crystalline  lens  was  not  injured ;  that,  of  course, 
my  two  eyes  would  not  work  together;  and 
that  on  the  whole  my  chances  of  distinct  vision 
were  not  good.  But  the  bare  possibility  of  any- 
[  17] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

thing  like  full  sight  is  now  my  outstanding  hope. 
When  the  wound  was  made  about  one  third 
of  a  teaspoonful  of  fluid  like  the  white  of  an 
egg  flowed  out  upon  my  fingers,  —  aqueous 
fluid,  I  suppose.  The  eye  has  not  yet  lost  its 
natural  appearance. 

I  can  see  sufficiently  well  with  it  to  avoid  the 
furniture,  etc.,  in  walking  through  a  room. 
Can  almost,  in  full  light,  recognize  some  of 
my  friends  but  cannot  distinguish  one  letter 
from  another  of  common  type.  I  would  like  to 
hear  Dr.  Carr's  opinion  of  my  case. 

When  I  received  my  blow  I  could  not  feel 
any  pain  or  faintness  because  the  tremendous 
thought  glared  full  on  me  that  my  right  eye  was 
lost.  I  could  gladly  have  died  on  the  spot,  be 
cause  I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  have  heart  to 
look  at  any  flower  again.  But  this  is  not  so, 
for  I  wish  to  try  some  cloudy  day  to  walk  to 
the  woods,  where  I  am  sure  some  of  spring's 
sweet  fresh-born  are  waiting. 

I  believe  with  you  that  "nothing  is  with 
out  meaning  and  purpose  that  comes  from  a 
[  18  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

lather's  hand,"  but  during  these  dark  weeks  I 
could  not  feel  this,  and,  as  for  courage  and  for 
titude,  scarce  the  shadows  of  these  virtues  were 
left  me.  The  shock  upon  my  nervous  system 
made  me  weak  in  mind  as  a  child.  But  enough 
of  woe. 

When  I  can  walk  to  where  fruited  specimens 
of  Climacium  are,  I  will  send  you  as  many  as 
you  wish. 

I  must  close.  I  thank  you  all  again  for  your 
kindness.  I  cannot  make  sentences  that  will 
tell  how  much  I  feel  indebted  to  you. 

Please  remember  me  to  all  my  friends. 

You  will  write  soon.  I  can  read  my  letters 
now.  Please  send  them  in  care  of  Osgood  & 

Smith. 

Cordially, 

MUIR. 

[April,  1867.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
I  have  been  groping  among  the  flowers  a  good 
deal  lately.  Our  trees  are  now  in  leaf,  but  the 
[  19  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

leaves,  as  Mrs.  Browning  would  say, 
"scarce  long  enough  for  waving/'  The  dear 
little  conservative  spring  mosses  have  elevated 
their  capsules  on  their  smooth  shining  shafts, 
and  stand  side  by  side  in  full  stature,  and  full 
fashion,  every  ornament  and  covering  carefully 
numbered  and  painted  and  sculptured  as  were 
those  of  their  Adams  and  Eves,  every  cowl  prop 
erly  plaited,  and  drawn  far  enough  down,  every 
hood  with  the  proper  dainty  slant,  their  fash 
ions  never  changing  because  ever  best. 

Tell  Allie  that  I  would  be  very  glad  to  have 
him  send  me  an  Anemone  nemorosa  [?]  and  A. 
Nuttalliana.  They  do  not  grow  here.  I  wish  he 
and  Henry  could  visit  me  on  Saturdays  as  they 
used  to  do. 

The  poor  eye  is  much  better.  I  could  read  a 
letter  with  it.  I  believe  that  sight  is  increas 
ing.  I  have  nearly  an  eye  and  a  half  left. 

I  feel,  if  possible,  more  anxious  to  travel  than 
ever. 

I  read  a  description  of  the  Yosemite  Valley 
last  year  and  thought  of  it  most  every  day 
f  20  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

since.  You  know  my  tastes  better  than  any  one 
else.  I  am,  most  gratefully, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

Indianapolis,  May  2nd,  1867. 

I  am  sorry  and  surprised  to  hear  of  the  cruel 
fate  of  your  ^plants. 

I  have  never  seen  so  happy  flowers  in  any 
other  home.  They  lived  with  you  so  cheerfully 
and  confidingly,  and  felt  so  sure  of  receiving 
from  you  sympathy  and  tenderness  in  all  their 
sorrows. 

How  could  they  grow  cold  and  colder  and 
die  without  your  knowing?  They  must  have 
called  you.  Could  any  bedroom  be  so  remote 
you  could  not  hear?  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs. 
Carr,  for  you  and  them.  Can  your  loss  be  re 
paired  ?  Will  not  other  flowers  lose  confidence 
in  you  and  live  like  those  of  other  people,  sickly 
and  mute,  half  in,  half  out  of,  the  body? 

No  snow  fell  here  Easter  evening,  but  a  few 
wet  flakes  are  falling  here  and  there  to-day. 

Thank  you  for  sending  the  prophecy  of  that 
[21  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

loving  naturalist  of  yours.  It  is  indeed  a  pleas 
ant  one,  but  my  faith  concerning  its  complete 
fulfillment  is  weak.  I  do  not  know  who  your 
other  doctor  is,  but  I  am  sure  that  when  in  the 
Yosemite  Valley  and  following  the  Pacific  coast 
I  would  obtain  a  great  deal  of  geology  from 
Dr.  Carr,  and  from  yourself  and  that  I  should 
win  the  secret  of  many  a  weed's  plain  heart. 

I  am  overestimated  by  your  friend.  He 
places  me  in  company  far  too  honorable,  but 
if  we  meet  in  the  fields  of  the  sunny  South  I 
shall  certainly  speak  to  him. 

Tell  him,  Mrs.  Carr,  in  your  next  how  thank 
ful  I  am  for  his  sympathy.  He  is  one  who  can 
sympathize  in  full.  I  feel  sorry  for  his  like  mis 
fortune  and  am  indebted  to  him  through  you 
for  so  many  good  and  noble  thoughts. 

A  little  messenger  met  me  with  your  letter  of 
April  8th  when  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  woods 
for  the  first  time.  I  read  it  upon  a  moss-clad 
fallen  tree.  You  only  of  my  friends  congratu 
lated  me  on  my  happiness  in  having  avoided 
the  misery  and  mud  of  March,  but  for  the  seri- 

[22   ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ous  part  of  your  letter,  the  kind  of  life  which 
our  plant  friends  have,  and  their  relation  to  us, 
I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  it.  I  must  write 
of  this  some  other  time. 

In  this  first  walk  I  found  Erigenia,  which 
here  is  ever  first,  and  sweet  little  violets,  and 
Sanguinariay  and  Isopyrum  too,  and  Thalic- 
trum  anemonoides  were  almost  ready  to  venture 
their  faces  to  the  sky.  The  red  maple  was  in 
full  flower  glory;  the  leaves  below  and  the 
mosses  were  bright  with  its  fallen  scarlet  blos 
soms.  And  the  elm  too  was  in  flower  and  the 
earliest  willows.  All  this  when  your  fields  had 
scarce  the  memory  of  a  flower  left  in  them. 

I  will  not  try  to  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed 
in  this  walk  after  four  weeks  in  bed.  You  can 
feel  it. 

Indianapolis,  June  Qth,  1867. 

I  have  been  looking  over  your  letters  and  am 
sorry  that  so  many  of  them  are  unanswered. 
My  debt  to  you  has  been  increasing  very  rap 
idly  of  late,  and  I  don't  think  it  can  ever  be 
paid. 

[23] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  am  not  well  enough  to  work,  and  I  cannot 
sit  still;  I  have  been  reading  and  botanizing 
for  some  weeks,  and  I  find  that  for  such  work 
I  am  very  much  disabled.  I  leave  this  city 
for  home  to-morrow  accompanied  by  Merrill 
Moores,  a  little  friend  of  mine  eleven  years  of 
age.  We  will  go  to  Decatur,  111.,  thence  north 
ward  through  the  wide  prairies,  botanizing  a 
few  weeks  by  the  way.  We  hope  to  spend  a  few 
days  in  Madison,  and  I  promise  myself  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure. 

I  hope  to  go  South  towards  the  end  of  sum 
mer,  and  as  this  will  be  a  journey  that  I  know 
very  little  about,  I  hope  to  profit  by  your 
counsel  before  setting  out. 

I  am  very  happy  with  the  thought  of  so  soon 
seeing  my  Madison  friends,  and  Madison,  and 
the  plants  of  Madison,  and  yours. 

I  am  thankful  that  this  affliction  has  drawn 
me  to  the  sweet  fields  rather  than  from  them. 

Give  my  love  to  Allie  and  Henry  and  all  my 
friends.  Yours  most  cordially, 

JOHN  Mum. 
[24] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Roses  with  us  are  now  in  their  grandest  splen 
dor. 

My  address  for  five  or  six  weeks  from  this 
date  will  be  Portage  City,  Wis. 

[1867.] 

I  am  now  with  the  loved  of  home.  I  received 
your  kind  letter  on  my  arrival  in  Portage  four 
weeks  ago.  I  have  delayed  writing  that  I  might 
be  able  to  state  when  I  could  be  in  Madison. 
I  have  never  seen  Arethusa  nor  Aspidium 
fragrans,  but  I  know  many  a  meadow  where 
Calopogon  finds  home.  With  us  it  is  now  in  the 
plenitude  of  glory.  Camptosorus  is  not  here, 
but  I  can  easily  procure  you  a  specimen  from 
the  rocks  of  Owen  Sound,  Canada.  It  is  there 
very  abundant,  so  also  is  Scolopendrium.  Have 
you  a  living  specimen  of  this  last  fern  r  Please 
tell  me  particularly  about  the  sending  or  bring 
ing  Calopogon  or  any  other  of  our  plants  you 
wish  for.  I  have  no  skill  whatever  in  the  matter. 
I  am  enjoying  myself  exceedingly.  The  dear 
flowers  of  Wisconsin  are  incomparably  more 
[25] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

numerous  than  those  of  Canada  or  Indiana. 
With  what  fervid,  unspeakable  joy  did  I  wel 
come  those  flowers  that  I  have  loved  so  long! 
Hundreds  grow  in  the  full  light  of  our  opening 
that  I  have  not  seen  since  leaving  home.  In 
company  with  my  little  friend  I  visited  Muir's 
Lake.  We  approached  it  by  a  ravine  in  the 
principal  hills  that  belong  to  it.  We  emerged 
from  the  low  leafy  oaks,  and  it  came  in  full  view 
all  unchanged,  sparkling  and  clear,  with  its 
edging  of  rushes  and  lilies.  And  there,  too,  was 
the  meadow,  with  its  brook  and  willows,  and  all 
the  well-known  nooks  of  its  winding  border 
where  many  a  moss  and  fern  find  home.  I  held 
these  poor  eyes  to  the  dear  scene  and  it  reached 
me  once  more  in  its  fullest  glory. 

We  visited  my  millpond,  a  very  Lilliputian 
affair  upon  a  branch  creek  from  springs  in  the 
meadow.  After  leaving  the  dam  my  stream 
flows  underground  a  few  yards.  The  opening 
of  this  dark  way  is  extremely  beautiful.  I  wish 
you  could  see  it.  It  is  hung  with  a  slender  mea 
dow  sedge  whose  flowing  tapered  leaves  have 
[26] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

just  sufficient  stiffness  to  make  them  arch  with 
inimitable  beauty  as  they  reach  down  to  wel 
come  the  water  to  the  light.  This,  I  think,  is 
one  of  Nature's  finest  pieces  most  delicately 
finished  and  composed  of  just  this  quiet  flowing 
water,  sedge,  and  summer  light. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  ferns  of  this  neigh 
borhood.  We  have  some  of  the  finest  assem 
blies  imaginable.  There  is  a  little  grassy  lake 
let  about  half  a  mile  from  here,  shaded  and 
sheltered  by  a  dense  growth  of  small  oaks.  Just 
where  those  oaks  meet  the  marginal  sedges  of 
the  lake  is  a  circle  of  ferns,  a  perfect  brother 
hood  of  the  three  osmundas,  —  regalis,  Clayto- 
niana,  and  Cinnamomea.  Of  the  three,  Clay  to- 
niana  is  the  most  stately  and  luxuriant.  I  never 
saw  such  lordly,  magnificent  clumps  before. 
Their  average  height  is  not  less  than  3!  or  4 
feet.  I  measured  several  fronds  that  exceeded 
5,  —  one,  5  feet  9  inches.  Their  palace  home 
gave  no  evidence  of  having  ever  been  trampled 
upon.  I  do  wish  you  could  meet  them.  This  is 
my  favorite  fern.  I  'm  sorry  it  does  not  grow  in 
[27] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Scotland.  Had  Hugh  Miller  seen  it  there,  he 
would  not  have  called  regalis  the  prince  of  Ba- 
lich  ferns.  I  think  that  I  have  seen  specimens 
of  the  ostrich  fern  in  some  places  of  Canada 
which  might  rival  my  Osmunda  in  height,  but 
not  in  beauty  and  sublimity. 

I  was  anxious  to  see  Illinois  prairies  on  my 
way  home ;  so  we  went  to  Decatur,  or  near  the 
centre  of  the  State,  thence  north  by  Rockford 
and  Janesville.  I  botanized  one  week  on  the 
prairie  about  seven  miles  southwest  of  Peca- 
tonica.  I  gathered  the  most  beautiful  bouquet 
there  that  I  ever  saw.  I  seldom  make  bouquets. 
I  never  saw  but  very  few  that  I  thought  were 
at  all  beautiful.  I  was  anxious  to  know  the 
grasses  and  sedges  of  the  Illinois  prairies  and 
also  their  comparative  abundance ;  so  I  walked 
one  hundred  yards  in  a  straight  line,  gathering 
at  each  step  that  grass  or  sedge  nearest  my  foot, 
placing  them  one  by  one  in  my  left  hand  as  I 
walked  along,  without  looking  at  them  or  en 
tertaining  the  remotest  idea  of  making  a  bou 
quet.  At  the  end  of  this  measured  walk  my 
[  28  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

handful,  of  course,  consisted  of  one  hundred 
plants  arranged  in  Nature  s  own  way  as  regards 
kind,  comparative  numbers,  and  size.  I  looked 
at  my  grass  bouquet  by  chance  —  was  startled 
—  held  it  at  arms  length  in  sight  of  its  own  near 
and  distant  scenery  and  companion  flowers  — 
my  discovery  was  complete  and  I  was  delighted 
beyond  measure  with  the  new  and  extreme 
beauty.  Here  it  is:  — 

Of  Kceleria  cristata  55 

"  Agrostis  s cobra  29 

"  Panicum  clandestinum  7 

"         "         depauperatum  I 

"  Stipa  spar  tea  7 

"  Poa  abodes  7 

"  "     pratensis  I 

"  Car  ex  panicea  4 

"      "     Nova-Jnglia  I 

The  extremely  fine  and  diffuse  purple  Agros 
tis  contrasted  most  divinely  with  the  taller, 
strict,  taper-finished  Kceleria,  The  long-awned 
single  Stipa  too  and  P.  clandestinum,  with  their 
broad  ovate  leaves  and  purple  muffy  pistils, 
played  an  important  part;  so  also  did  the  cylin 
drical  spikes  of  the  sedges.  All  were  just  in 
[29] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

place;  every  leaf  had  its  proper  taper  and  tex 
ture  and  exact  measure  of  green.  Only  P.  pra- 
tensis  seemed  out  of  place,  and  as  might  be  ex 
pected  it  proved  to  be  an  intruder,  belonging 
to  a  field  or  bouquet  in  Europe.  Can  it  be  that 
a  single  flower  or  weed  or  grass  in  all  these 
prairies  occupies  a  chance  position?  Can  it  be 
that  the  folding  or  curvature  of  a  single  leaf  is 
wrong  or  undetermined  in  these  gardens  that 
God  is  keeping? 

The  most  microscopic  portions  of  plants  are 
beautiful  in  themselves,  and  these  are  beau 
tiful  combined  into  individuals,  and  undoubt 
edly  all  are  woven  with  equal  care  into  one 
harmonious,  beautiful  whole. 

I  have  the  analysis  of  two  other  handfuls  of 
prairie  plants  which  I  will  show  you  another 
time. 

We  hope  to  be  in  Madison  in  about  three 
weeks. 

To  me  all  plants  are  more  precious  than  be 
fore.  My  poor  eye  is  not  better  or  worse.  A 
cloud  is  over  it,  but  in  gazing  over  the  widest 
[30] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

landscapes  I  am  not  always  sensible  of  its  pres 
ence. 

My  love  to  Allie  and  Henry  Butler  and  all 
my  friends,  please  tell  the  Butlers  when  we  are 
coming.  Their  invitation  is  prior  to  yours,  but 
your  houses  are  not  widely  separated.  I  mean 
to  write  again  before  leaving  home.  You  will 
then  have  all  my  news  and  I  will  have  only  to 
listen.  Most  cordially, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

Indianapolis,  August  3Oth,  1867. 

We  are  safely  in  Indianapolis.,  I  am  not  go 
ing  to  write  a  letter,  I  only  want  to  thank  you 
and  the  Doctor  and  all  of  the  boys  for  the  en 
joyments  of  the  pleasant  botanical  week  we 
spent  with  you. 

We  saw,  as  the  steam  hurried  us  on,  that 
the  grand  harvest  of  Composite  would  be  no 
failure  this  year.  It  is  rapidly  receiving  its 
purple  and  gold,  in  generous  measure  from  the 
precious  light  of  these  days. 

I  could  not  but  notice  how  well  appearances 
[31  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

in  the  vicinity  of  Chicago  agreed  with  Lesque- 
reux's  theory  of  the  formation  of  prairies.  We 
spent  about  five  hours  in  Chicago.  I  did  not 
find  many  flowers  in  her  tumultuous  streets; 
only  a  few  grassy  plants  of  wheat  and  two  or 
three  species  of  weeds,  —  amaranth,  purslane, 
carpet-weed,  etc.,  —  the  weeds,  I  suppose,  for 
man  to  walk  upon,  the  wheat  to  feed  him.  I 
saw  some  new  algae,  but  no  mosses.  I  expected 
to  see  some  of  the  latter  on  wet  walls  and  in 
seams  in  the  pavement,  but  I  suppose  that  the 
manufacturers'  smoke  and  the  terrible  noise  is 
too  great  for  the  hardiest  of  them. 

I  wish  I  knew  where  I  was  going.  Doomed 
to  be  "carried  of  the  spirit  into  the  wilderness," 
I  suppose.  I  wish  I  could  be  more  moderate 
in  my  desires,  but  I  cannot,  and  so  there  is  no 
rest.  Is  not  your  experience  the  same  as  this  ? 

I  feel  myself  deeply  indebted  to  you  all  for 
your  great  and  varied  kindness,  —  not  any  the 
less  if  from  stupidity  and  sleepiness  I  forgot  on 
leaving  to  express  it.  Farewell. 

J.  MUIR. 
[32] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Among  the  Hills  of  Bear  Creek, 

seven  miles  southeast  of  Burkesville,  Kentucky, 

September  9th,  [1867.] 

I  left  Indianapolis  last  Monday  and  have 
reached  this  point  by  a  long,  weary,  round 
about  walk.  I  walked  from  Louisville  a  dis 
tance  of  170  miles,  and  my  feet  are  sore,  but  I 
am  paid  for  all  my  toil  a  thousand  times  over. 

The  sun  has  been  among  the  treetops  for 
more  than  an  hour,  and  the  dew  is  nearly  all 
taken  back,  and  the  shade  in  these  hill  basins 
is  creeping  away  into  the  unbroken  strongholds 
of  the  grand  old  forests. 

I  have  enjoyed  the  trees  and  scenery  of 
Kentucky  exceedingly.  How  shall  I  ever  tell 
of  the  miles  and  miles  of  beauty  that  have 
been  flowing  into  me  in  such  measure?  These 
lofty  curving  ranks  of  bobbing,  swelling  hills, 
these  concealed  valleys  of  fathomless  verdure, 
and  these  lordly  trees  with  the  nursing  sun 
light  glancing  in  their  leaves  upon  the  outlines 
of  the  magnificent  masses  of  shade  embosomed 
among  their  wide  branches,  —  these  are  cut 
into  my  memory  to  go  with  me  forever. 
[  331 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  often  thought  as  I  went  along  how  dearly 
Mrs.  Carr  would  appreciate  all  this.  I  have 
thought  of  many  things  I  wished  to  ask  you 
about  when  with  you.  I  hope  to  see  you  all 
again  some  time  when  my  tongue  and  memory 
are  in  better  order.  I  have  much  to  ask  the 
Doctor  about  the  geology  of  Kentucky. 

I  have  seen  many  caves,  Mammoth  among 
the  rest.  I  found  two  [  ]  ferns  at  the  last. 
My  love  to  Allie  and  all. 

Very  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

I  am  in  the  woods  on  a  hilltop  with  my  back 
against  a  moss-clad  log.  I  wish  you  could  see 
my  last  evening's  bedroom. 

My  route  will  be  through  Kingston  and  Mad- 
isonville,  Tenn.,  and  through  Blairsville  and 
Gainesville,  Georgia.  Please  write  me  at  Gaines 
ville.  I  am  terribly  hungry.  I  hardly  dare  to 
think  of  home  and  friends. 

I  was  a  few  miles  south  of  Louisville  when 
I  planned  my  journey.  I  spread  out  my  map 
[34] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

under  a  tree  and  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
through  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  and  Georgia  to 
Florida,  thence  to  Cuba,  thence  to  some  part 
of  South  America,  but  it  will  be  only  a  hasty 
walk.  I  am  thankful,  however,  for  so  much. 

I  will  be  glad  to  receive  any  advice  from  you. 
I  am  very  ignorant  of  all  things  pertaining  to 

this  journey. 

Again  farewell. 

J.  MUIR. 

My  love  to  the  Butlers.  I  am  sorry  I  could 
not  see  John  Spooner  before  leaving  Madison. 

Cedar  Keys,  [Fla.] 

November  8th,  [1867.] 

I  am  just  creeping  about  getting  plants  and 
strength  after  my  fever.  I  wrote  you  a  long 
time  ago,  but  retained  the  letter,  hoping  to  be 
able  soon  to  tell  you  where  you  might  write. 
Your  letter  arrived  in  Gainesville  just  a  few 
minutes  before  I  did.  Somehow  your  letters 
always  come  when  most  needed.  I  felt  and  en 
joyed  what  you  said  of  souls  and  solitudes,  also 
that  "All  of  Nature  being  yet  found  in  man/' 
[35  ]  " 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  shall  long  for  a  letter  from  you.  Will  you 
please  write  me  a  long  letter?  Perhaps  it  will 
be  safer  to  send  it  to  New  Orleans,  La.  I  shall 
have  to  go  there  for  a  boat  to  South  America. 
I  do  not  yet  know  which  point  in  South  Amer 
ica  I  had  better  go  to.  What  do  you  say?  My 
means  being  limited,  I  cannot  stay  long  any 
where.  I  would  gladly  do  anything  I  could  for 
Mr.  Warren,  but  I  fear  my  time  will  be  too  short 
to  effect  much. 

I  did  not  see  Miss  Brooks,  because  I  found 
she  was  130  miles  from  Savannah.  I  passed  the 
Bostwich  plantation  and  could  not  conveniently 
go  back.  I  am  very  sorry  about  the  mistake. 

I  have  written  little,  but  you  will  excuse  me. 
I  am  wearied. 

My  most  cordial  love  to  all. 

Near  Snelling,  Merced  Co., 

California,  July  26th,  [1868.] 

I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  but  one  letter 
since  leaving  home  from  you.  That  I  received 
at  Gainesville,  Georgia. 

[36] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  have  not  received  a  letter  from  any  source 
since  leaving  Florida,  and  of  course  I  am  very 
lonesome  and  hunger  terribly  for  the  commun 
ion  of  friends.  I  will  remain  here  eight  or  nine 
months  and  hope  to  hear  from  all  my  friends. 

Fate  and  flowers  have  carried  me  to  Califor 
nia,  and  I  have  reveled  and  luxuriated  amid 
its  plants  and  mountains  nearly  four  months. 
I  am  well  again,  I  came  to  life  in  the  cool  winds 
and  crystal  waters  of  the  mountains,  and,  were 
it  not  for  a  thought  now  and  then  of  loneliness 
and  isolation,  the  pleasure  of  my  existence 
would  be  complete. 

I  have  forgotten  whether  I  wrote  you  from 
Cuba  or  not.  I  spent  four  happy  weeks  there 
in  January  and  February. 

I  saw  only  a  very  little  of  the  grandeur  of 
Panama,  for  my  health  was  still  in  wreck,  and 
I  did  not  venture  to  wait  the  arrival  of  another 
steamer.  I  had  but  half  a  day  to  collect  speci 
mens.  The  Isthmus  train  rushed  on  with  camel 
speed  through  the  gorgeous  Eden  of  vines  and 
palms,  and  I  could  only  gaze  from  the  car  plat- 
[37  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

form  and  weep  and  pray  that  the  Lord  would 
some  day  give  me  strength  to  see  it  better. 

After  a  delightful  sail  among  the  scenery  of 
the  sea  I  arrived  in  San  Francisco  in  April  and 
struck  out  at  once  into  the  country.  I  followed 
the  Diablo  foothills  along  the  San  Jose  Valley 
to  Gilroy,  thence  over  the  Diablo  Mountains 
to  valley  of  San  Joaquin  by  the  Pacific  pass, 
thence  down  the  valley  opposite  the  mouth  of 
the  Merced  River,  thence  across  the  San  Joa 
quin,  and  up  into  the  Sierra  Nevada  to  the 
mammoth  trees  of  Mariposa  and  the  glorious 
Yosemite,  thence  down  the  Merced  to  this 
place. 

The  goodness  of  the  weather  as  I  journeyed 
towards  Pacheco  was  beyond  all  praise  and  de 
scription,  fragrant  and  mellow  and  bright.  The 
air  was  perfectly  delicious,  sweet  enough  for 
the  breath  of  angels;  every  draught  of  it  gave 
a  separate  and  distinct  piece  of  pleasure.  I  do 
not  believe  that  Adam  and  Eve  ever  tasted 
better  in  their  balmiest  nook. 

The  last  of  the  Coast  Range  foothills  were 
[38] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

in  near  view  all  the  way  to  Gilroy.  Their  union 
with  the  valley  is  by  curves  and  slopes  of  inimit 
able  beauty,  and  they  were  robed  with  the 
greenest  grass  and  richest  light  I  ever  beheld, 
and  colored  and  shaded  with  millions  of  flowers 
of  every  hue,  chiefly  of  purple  and  golden  yel 
low;  and  hundreds  of  crystal  rills  joined  songs 
with  the  larks,  filling  all  the  valley  with  music 
like  a  sea,  making  it  an  Eden  from  end  to  end. 
The  scenery,  too,  and  all  of  Nature  in  the 
pass  is  fairly  enchanting,  —  strange  and  beau 
tiful  mountain  ferns,  low  in  the  dark  canons 
and  high  upon  the  rocky,  sunlit  peaks,  banks 
of  blooming  shrubs,  and  sprinklings  and  gath 
erings  of  [  ]  flowers,  precious  and  pure  as 
ever  enjoyed  the  sweets  of  a  mountain  home. 
And  oh,  what  streams  are  there!  beaming, 
glancing,  each  with  music  of  its  own,  singing 
as  they  go  in  the  shadow  and  light,  onward  upon 
their  lovely  changing  pathways  to  the  sea;  and 
hills  rise  over  hills,  and  mountains  over  moun 
tains,  heaving,  waving,  swelling,  in  most  glori 
ous,  overpowering,  unreadable  majesty;  and 
[391 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

when  at  last,  stricken  with  faint  like  a  crushed 
insect,  you  hope  to  escape  from  all  the  terrible 
grandeur  of  these  mountain  powers,  other  foun 
tains,  other  oceans  break  forth  before  you,  for 
there,  in  clear  view,  over  heaps  and  rows  of  foot 
hills  is  laid  a  grand,  smooth  outspread  plain, 
watered  by  a  river,  and  another  range  of  peaky 
snow-capped  mountains  a  hundred  miles  in  the 
distance.  That  plain  is  the  valley  of  the  San 
Joaquin,  and  those  mountains  are  the  great 
Sierra  Nevadas.  The  valley  of  the  San  Joaquin 
is  the  floweriest  piece  of  world  I  ever  walked, 
one  vast  level,  even  flower-bed,  a  sheet  of  flow 
ers,  a  smooth  sea  ruffled  a  little  by  the  tree 
fringing  of  the  river  and  here  and  there  of  small 
er  cross  streams  from  the  mountains.  Florida 
is  indeed  a  land  of  flowers,  but  for  every  flower 
creature  that  dwells  in  its  most  delightsome 
places  more  than  a  hundred  are  living  here. 
Here,  here  is  Florida.  Here  they  are  not  sprin 
kled  apart  with  grass  between,  as  in  our  prai 
ries,  but  grasses  are  sprinkled  in  the  flowers ;  not, 
as  in  Cuba,  flowers  piled  upon  flowers  heaped 
[40] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  gathered  into  deep,  glowing  masses,  but 
side  by  side,  flower  to  flower,  petal  to  petal, 
touching  but  not  entwined,  branches  weaving 
past  and  past  each  other,  but  free  and  separate, 
one  smooth  garment,  mosses  next  the  ground, 
grasses  above,  petaled  flowers  between. 

Before  studying  the  flowers  of  this  valley, 
and  their  sky  and  all  of  the  furniture  and  sounds 
and  adornments  of  their  home,  one  can  scarce 
believe  that  their  vast  assemblies  are  perma 
nent,  but  rather  that,  actuated  by  some  plant 
purpose,  they  had  convened  from  every  plain, 
and  mountain,  and  meadow  of  their  kingdom, 
and  that  the  different  coloring  of  patches,  acres, 
and  miles  marked  the  bounds  of  the  various 
tribe  and  family  encampments.  And  now  just 
stop  and  see  what  I  gathered  from  a  square 
yard  opposite  the  Merced.  I  have  no  books 
and  cannot  give  specific  names:  — 

Orders  Open  flowers  Species 

Composite  132,125  2  yellow,  3305  heads 

Leguminosse  2620  2  purple  and  white 

Scrophulariacese  169  I  purple 

Umbellaceae  620  I  yellow 

Geraniacese  22  I  purple 

[41  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Orders  Open  flowers  Species 

Rubiaceae  40  I  white 

85  Natural  order  unknown 

60  Plants  unflowered 

Polemoniacese  407  2  purple 

Graminese  29,830  3;  stems  about  700;  spikelets 

10,700 

Musci  10,000,000  2  purples,  Dicranum,  Tunar 

Total  of  open  flowers,  165,912 
"      "  flowers  in  bud,  100,000 
"      "  withered,  40,000 
"      "  natural  orders,  9-11 
"      "  species,  16-17 

The  yellow  of  these  Composite  is  extremely 
deep  and  rich  and  bossy,  as  though  the  sun  had 
rilled  their  petals  with  a  portion  of  his  very  self. 
It  exceeds  the  purple  of  all  the  others  in  super 
ficial  quantity  forty  or  fifty  times  their  whole 
amount,  but  to  an  observer  who  first  looks 
downward  and  then  takes  a  more  distant  view, 
the  yellow  gradually  fades  and  purple  predomi 
nates  because  nearly  all  of  the  purple  flowers 
are  higher.  In  depth  the  purple  stratum  is 
about  ten  or  twelve  inches,  the  yellow  seven  or 
eight,  and  second  purple  of  mosses  one. 

I  'm  sorry  my  page  is  done.  I  have  not  told 
anything.  I  thought  of  you,  Mrs.  Carr,  when 
I  was  in  the  glorious  Yosemite  and  of  the  proph- 
[42] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ecy  of  "the  Priests"  that  you  would  see  it  and 
worship  there  with  your  Doctor  and  Priest  and 
I.  It  is  by  far  the  grandest  of  all  of  the  special 
temples  of  Nature  I  was  ever  permitted  to  en 
ter.  .It  must  be  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  the 
Sierras,  and  I  trust  that  you  will  all  be  led  to  it. 
Remember  me  to  the  Doctor.  I  hope  he 
has  the  pleasure  of  sowing  in  good  and  honest 
hearts  the  glorious  truth  of  science  to  which  he 
has  devoted  his  life.  Give  my  love  to  all  your 
boys  and  my  little  Butler. 

Adieu. 

J.  MUIR. 

Address: 

Hopeton,  Merced  Co.,  Cala. 

At  a  sheep  ranch  between  the 

Tuolumne  and  Stanislaus  rivers, 

November  1st,  [1868.] 

I  was  extremely  glad  to  receive  yet  one  more 
of  your  ever  welcome  letters.  It  found  me  two 
weeks  ago.  I  rode  over  to  Hopeton  to  seek  for 
letters.  I  had  to  pass  through  a  bed  of  Compos 
ite  two  or  three  miles  in  diameter.  They  were 
in  the  glow  of  full  prime,  forming  a  lake  of  the 
[43] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

purest  Composite  gold  I  ever  beheld.  Some 
single  plants  had  upwards  of  three  thousand 
heads.  Their  petal-surface  exceeded  their  leaf- 
surface  thirty  or  forty  times.  Because  of  the 
constancy  of  the  winds  all  these  flowers  faced 
in  one  direction  (southeast),  and  I  thought,  as 
I  gazed  upon  myriads  of  joyous  plant  beings 
clothed  in  rosy  golden  light,  What  would  old 
Linnaus  or  Mrs.  Carr  say  to  this? 

I  was  sorry  to  think  of  the  loss  of  your  letters, 
but  it  is  just  what  might  be  expected  from  the 
wretched  mail  arrangements  of  the  South. 

I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  of  your  leaving 
Madison  and  am  anxious  to  know  where  your 
lot  will  be  cast.  If  you  go  to  South  America 
soon,  I  shall  hope  to  meet  you,  and  if  you  should 
decide  to  seek  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  in  Cali 
fornia  before  the  end  of  the  year,  I  shall  find 
you  and  be  glad  to  make  another  visit  to  the 
Yosemite  with  your  Doctor  and  Priest,  accord 
ing  to  the  old  plan.  I  know  the  way  up  the 
rocks  to  the  falls,  and  I  know  too  the  abode 
of  many  a  precious  mountain  fern.  I  gathered 
[44] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

plenty  for  you,  but  you  must  see  them  at  home. 
Not  an  angel  could  tell  a  tithe  of  these  glories. 

If  you  make  your  home  in  California,  I  know 
from  experience  how  keenly  you  will  feel  the 
absence  of  the  special  flowers  you  love.  No 
others  can  fill  their  places;  Heaven  itself  would 
not  answer  without  Calypso  and  Linncea. 

I  think  that  you  will  find  in  California  just 
what  you  desire  in  climate  and  scenery,  for 
both  are  so  varied.  March  is  the  springtime 
of  the  plains,  April  the  summer,  and  May  the 
autumn.  The  other  months  are  dry  and  wet 
winter,  uniting  with  each  other,  and  with  the 
other  seasons  by  splices  and  overlappings  of 
very  simple  and  very  intricate  kinds.  I  rode 
across  the  seasons  in  going  to  the  Yosemite 
last  spring.  I  started  from  the  Joaquin  in  the 
last  week  of  May.  All  the  plain  flowers,  so 
lately  fresh  in  the  power  of  full  beauty,  were 
dead.  Their  parched  leaves  crisped  and  fell  to 
powder  beneath  my  feet,  as  though  they  had 
been  "cast  into  the  oven."  And  they  had  not, 
like  the  plants  of  our  West,  weeks  and  months 
[45] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

to  grow  old  in,  but  they  died  ere  they  could 
fade,  standing  together  holding  out  their  bran 
ches  erect  and  green  as  life.  But  they  did  not 
die  too  soon;  they  lived  a  whole  life  and  stored 
away  abundance  of  future  life-principle  in  the 
seed. 

After  riding  for  two  days  in  this  autumn  I 
found  summer  again  in  the  higher  foothills. 
Flower  petals  were  spread  confidingly  open,  the 
grasses  waved  their  branches  all  bright  and 
gay  in  the  colors  of  healthy  prime,  and  the 
winds  and  streams  were  cool.  Forty  or  fifty 
miles  further  into  the  mountains,  I  came  to 
spring.  The  leaves  on  the  oak  were  small  and 
drooping,  and  they  still  retained  their  first 
tintings  of  crimson  and  purple,  and  the  wrinkles 
of  their  bud  folds  were  distinct  as  if  newly 
opened,  and  all  along  the  rims  of  cool  brooks 
and  mild  sloping  places  thousands  of  gentle 
mountain  flowers  were  tasting  life  for  the  first 
time. 

A  few  miles  farther  "onward  and  upward" 
I  found  the  edge  of  winter.  Scarce  a  grass 
[46  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

could  be  seen.  The  last  of  the  lilies  and  spring 
violets  were  left  below;  the  winter  scales  were 
still  shut  upon  the  buds  of  the  dwarf  oaks  and 
alders ;  the  grand  Nevada  pines  waved  solemnly 
to  cold,  loud  winds  among  rushing,  changing 
stormclouds.  Soon  my  horse  was  plunging  in 
snow  ten  feet  in  depth,  the  sky  became  darker 
and  more  terrible,  many-voiced  mountain  winds 
swept  the  pines,  speaking  the  dread  language 
of  the  cold  north,  snow  began  to  fall,  and  in 
less  than  a  week  from  the  burning  plains  of  the 
San  Joaquin  autumn  was  lost  in  the  blinding 
snows  of  mountain  winter. 

Descending  these  higher  mountains  towards 
the  Yosemite,  the  snow  gradually  disappeared 
from  the  pines  and  the  sky,  tender  leaves  un 
folded  less  and  less  doubtfully,  lilies  and  violets 
appeared  again,  and  I  once  more  found  spring 
in  the  grand  valley.  Thus  meet  and  blend  the 
seasons  of  these  mountains  and  plains,  beauti 
ful  in  their  joinings  as  those  of  lake  and  land 
or  of  the  bands  of  the  rainbow.  The  room  is 
full  of  talking  men ;  I  cannot  write,  and  I  only 
[  47  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

attempt  to  scrawl  this  note  to  thank  you  for  all 
the  good  news  and  good  thoughts  and  friendly 
wishes  and  remembrances  you  send. 

My  kindest  wishes  to  the  Doctor.  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  directed  by  Providence  to  the  place 
where  you  will  best  serve  the  end  of  existence. 
My  love  to  all  your  family. 

Ever  yours  most  cordially, 

J.  M. 

Near  Snellings,  Merced  Co.,  [Cal.] 
February  24th,  1869. 

Your  two  California  notes  from  San  Francis 
co  and  San  Mateo  reached  me  last  evening,  and 
I  rejoice  at  the  glad  tidings  they  bring  of  your 
arrival  in  this  magnificent  land.  I  have  thought 
of  you  hundreds  of  times  in  my  seasons  of  deep 
est  joy,  amid  the  flower  purple  and  gold  of  the 
plains,  the  fern  fields  in  gorge  and  cafion,  the 
sacred  waters,  tree  columns,  and  the  eternal 
unnameable  sublimities  of  the  mountains.  Of 
all  my  friends  you  are  the  only  one  that  under 
stands  my  motives  and  enjoyments.  Only  a 
few  weeks  ago  a  true  and  liberal-minded  friend 
[48] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

sent  me  a  large  sheetful  of  terrible  blue-steel 
orthodoxy,  calling  me  from  clouds  and  flowers 
to  the  practical  walks  of  politics  and  philan 
thropy.  Mrs.  Carr,  thought  I,  never  lectured 
thus.  I  am  glad,  indeed,  that  you  are  here  to 
read  for  yourself  these  glorious  lessons  of  sky 
and  plain  and  mountain,  which  no  mortal 
power  can  ever  speak.  I  thought  when  in  the 
Yosemite  Valley  last  spring  that  the  Lord  had 
written  things  there  that  you  would  be  allowed 
to  read  some  time. 

I  have  not  made  a  single  friend  in  California, 
and  you  may  be  sure  I  strode  home  last  evening 
from  the  post  office  feeling  rich  indeed.  As  soon 
as  I  hear  of  your  finding  a  home,  I  shall  begin 
a  plan  of  visiting  you.  I  have  frequently  seen 
favorable  reports  upon  the  silk-culture  in  Cali 
fornia.  The  climate  of  Los  Angeles  is  said  to  be 
as  well  tempered  for  the  peculiar  requirements 
of  the  business  as  any  in  the  world.  I  think  that 
you  have  brought  your  boys  to  the  right  field 
for  planting.  I  doubt  if  in  all  the  world  man's 
comforts  and  necessities  can  be  more  easily 
[491 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  abundantly  supplied  than  in  California. 
I  have  often  wished  the  Doctor  near  me  in  my 
rambles  among  the  rocks.  Pure  science  is  a  most 
unmarketable  commodity  in  California.  Con 
spicuous,  energetic,  unmixed  materialism  rules 
supreme  in  all  classes.  Prof.  Whitney,  as  you 
are  aware,  was  accused  of  heresy  while  conduct 
ing  the  State  survey,  because  in  his  reports  he 
devoted  some  space  to  fossils  and  other  equally 
dead  and  un-Californian  objects  instead  of  col 
umns  of  discovered  and  measured  mines. 

I  am  engaged  at  present  in  the  very  impor 
tant  and  patriarchal  business  of  sheep.  I  am 
a  gentle  shepherd.  The  gray  box  in  which  I 
reside  is  distant  about  seven  miles  northwest 
from  Hopeton,  two  miles  north  of  Snellings. 
The  Merced  pours  past  me  on  the  south  from 
the  Yosemite ;  smooth,  domey  hills  and  the  tree 
fringe  of  the  Tuolumne  bound  me  on  the  north ; 
the  lordly  Sierras  join  sky  and  plain  on  the  east ; 
and  the  far  coast  mountains  on  the  west.  My 
mutton  family  of  eighteen  hundred  range  over 
about  ten  square  miles,  and  I  have  abundant 
[  50  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

opportunities  for  reading  and  botanizing.  I 
shall  be  here  for  about  two  weeks,  then  I  shall 
be  engaged  in  shearing  sheep  between  the  Tuo- 
lumne  and  Stanislaus  from  the  San  Joaquin 
to  the  Sierra  foothills  for  about  two  months. 
I  will  be  in  California  until  next  November, 
when  I  mean  to  start  for  South  America. 

I  received  your  Castleton  letter  and  wrote 
you  in  November.  I  suppose  you  left  Vermont 
before  my  letter  had  time  to  reach  you.  You 
must  prepare  for  your  Yosemite  baptism  in  June. 

Here  is  a  sweet  little  flower  that  I  have  just 
found  among  the  rocks  of  the  brook  that  waters 
Twenty-Hill  Hollow.  Its  anthers  are  curiously 
united  in  pairs  and  form  stars  upon  its  breast. 
The  calyx  seems  to  have  been  judged  too  plain 
and  green  to  accompany  the  splendid  corolla, 
and  so  is  left  behind  among  the  leaves.  I  first 
met  this  plant  among  the  Sierra  Nevadas. 
There  are  five  or  six  species.  For  beauty  and 
simplicity  they  might  be  allowed  to  dwell  with 
in  sight  of  Calypso.  There  are  about  twenty 
plants  in  flower  in  the  gardens  of  my  daily 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

walks.  The  first  was  born  in  January.  I  give 
them  more  attention  than  I  give  the  dirty  mon 
grel  creatures  of  my  flock,  that  are  about  half 
made  by  God  and  half  by  man.  I  have  not  yet 
discovered  the  poetical  part  of  a  shepherd's 
duties. 

Spring  will  soon  arrive  to  the  plants  of  Madi 
son,  and  surely  they  will  miss  you.  In  Yosemite 
you  will  find  cassiopes  and  laurels  and  azaleas, 
and  luxuriant  mosses  and  ferns,  but  I  know 
that  even  these  can  never  take  the  place  of  the 
long-loved  ones  of  your  Vermont  hills. 

Forgive  me  this  long  writing.  I  know  that 
you  are  in  a  fever  of  joy  from  the  beauty  pour 
ing  upon  you;  nevertheless  you  seem  so  near 
I  can  hardly  stop. 

My  most  cordial  regards  to  the  Doctor.  Cali- 
fornians  do  not  deserve  such  as  he. 

A  lawyer  by  the  name  of  Wigonton  or  Wigle- 
ton,  a  graduate  of  Madison,  resides  in  Snellings. 
I  suppose  you  know  him. 

I  am  your  friend, 

JOHN  MUIR. 
[52] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

920  Valencia  St., 
San  Francisco,  April  24th,  1869. 

I  enclose  at  last  the  name  of  the  big  orange 
book.  Either  Paqot  &  Co.  or  Gregoire  &  Co. 
will  import  it  for  Mr.  Carr  at  the  price  he  named, 
—  for  less  if  intended  for  the  library. 

I  thought  you  would  have  been  to  make  at 
least  one  of  your  small  businesslike  calls  to  see 
me  ere  this,  but  I  suppose  the  office  and  con 
ventions  and  your  farm  leave  you  precious  little 
time.  Your  days  all  go  by  in  little  beats  and 
bits,  while  you  move  so  fast  you  are  nearly 
invisible. 

Had  a  moment's  talk  with  the  Doctor.  Am 
glad  he  is  looking  so  much  like  himself  again. 
The  summer  is  coming.  Don't  know  how  it 
will  be  spent. 

Did  you  hear  the  Butlers  the  other  day? 
Glassy  leaves  tilted  at  all  angles. 

Cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 


[53] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Seven  miles  north  from  Snellings, 
May  1 6th,  1869. 

The  thoughts  of  again  meeting  with  you  and 
with  the  mountains  make  me  scarce  able  to  hold 
my  pen.  If  you  can  let  me  know  by  the  first 
of  June  when  you  will  leave  Stockton,  I  will 
meet  you  in  the  very  valley  itself.  When  the 
grass  of  the  plains  is  dead,  most  owners  of  sheep 
drive  their  flocks  to  the  pastures  green  of  the 
mountains,  and  as  my  soul  is  athirst  for  moun 
tain  things,  I  have  engaged  to  take  charge  of  a 
flock  all  summer  between  the  head  waters  of  the 
Tuolumne  and  Yosemite,  within  a  few  hours' 
walk  of  the  valley.  For  the  next  two  weeks  I 
will  be  at  Hopeton.  Some  time  in  the  first  week 
of  June,  I  will  start  from  this  place  (Patrick 
Delaney's  ranch)  for  the  mountains.  By  the 
middle  of  June  or  a  little  later  we  will  have  our 
flock  settled  in  the  new  home,  and,  having  made 
special  arrangements  for  a  two  weeks'  ramble 
with  you,  I  will  then  be  ready  and  free.  Any 
time,  say  between  the  2Oth  of  June  and  the 
1 5th  of  July,  will  suit  me.  I  intended  to  enjoy 
[54] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

another  baptism  in  the  sanctuaries  of  Yosem- 
ite,  whether  with  companions  of  like  passions 
or  alone.  Surely,  then,  my  cup  will  be  full 
when  blessed  with  such  company. 

Last  May  I  made  the  trip  on  horseback,  go 
ing  by  Coulterville  and  returning  by  Mariposa. 
A  passable  carriage-road  reached  about  twelve 
miles  beyond  Coulterville ;  the  rest  of  the  dis 
tance  to  the  valley  was  crossed  only  by  a  nar 
row  trail.  On  the  Mariposa  route  a  point  is 
reached  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  beyond  Mari 
posa  by  carriages ;  the  rest  of  the  journey,  about 
forty  miles,  must  be  made  on  horseback.  Tour 
ists  are  generally  advised  to  go  one  way  and  re 
turn  the  other,  that  as  much  as  possible  may 
be  seen,  but  I  think  that  more  is  seen  by  going 
and  returning  by  the  same  route,  because  all 
of  the  magnitudes  of  the  mountains  are  so  great 
that  unless  seen  and  submitted  to  a  good  long 
time  they  are  not  seen  or  felt  at  all. 

I  think  that  you  had  better  take  the  Mari 
posa  route,  for  the  grandest  grove  of  sequoias 
ever  discovered  is  upon  it,  and  it  is  much  the 
[  55  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

best  route  in  many  respects.  You  can  reach 
Mariposa  direct  from  Stockton  by  stage.  At 
Mariposa  you  can  procure  saddle-horses  and  all 
necessary  supplies,  —  provisions,  cooking  uten 
sils,  etc.  Provisions  can  also  be  obtained  at 
"Clark's"  and  in  the  valley.  Clark's  Hotel  is 
midway  between  the  valley  and  Mariposa.  It 
would  be  far  more  pleasant  to  camp  out  —  to 
alight  like  birds  in  beautiful  groves  of  your  own 
choosing  —  than  to  travel  by  rule  and  make 
forced  marches  to  fixed  points  of  common  resort 
and  common  confusion. 

You  will  require  a  light  tent  made  of  cotton 
sheeting,  also  a  strong  dress  and  strong  pair  of 
shoes  for  rock  service.  You  will,  of  course,  bring 
a  good  supply  of  paper  for  plants.  I  suppose, 
too,  that  you  will  all  bring  a  supply  of  drawing- 
material,  but  I  hardly  think  that  drawing  will 
be  done.  People  admitted  to  heaven  would 
most  likely  "wonder  and  adore"  for  at  least 
two  weeks  before  sketching  its  scenery,  and  I 
don't  think  that  you  will  sketch  Yosemite  any 
sooner. 

[  56  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Here  is,  I  think,  a  fair  estimate  of  the  cost 
of  the  round  trip  from  Stockton,  allowing, 
say,  ten  days  from  time  of  departure  from 
Mariposa  till  arrival  at  same  point.  Stage  fare 
and  way  expenses  to  and  from  Mariposa,  say 
$40.00;  saddle  horse,  $20.00;  provisions,  cook 
ing  utensils,  etc.,  $15.00;  total,  direct  expense 
for  one  person,  $75.00.  Each  additional  day 
spent  in  the  valley  would  cost  about  $3 .00.  If 
you  and  all  the  members  of  your  company  are 
good  riders,  and  there  are  among  you  one  or 
two  men  practical  travelers,  and  you  could  pur 
chase,  or  hire,  horses  at  a  reasonable  rate  in 
San  Jose  or  Gilroy,  you  could  cross  the  Coast 
Range  via  the  Pacheco  Pass  or  Livermore  Val 
ley,  thence  direct  to  the  Yosemite  across  the 
Joaquin  and  up  the  Merced,  passing  through 
Hopeton  and  Snellings.  This  kind  of  a  trip 
would  be  less  costly,  and  you  would  enjoy  it, 
but  unless  your  company  was  all  composed  of 
the  same  kind  of  material  it  would  not  answer. 

I  hope  the  Doctor  will  come  too.   I  want  to 
see  him  and  ask  him  a  great  many  questions. 
[57  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

There  is  a  kind  of  hotel  in  the  valley,  but  it  is 
incomparably  better  to  choose  your  own  camp 
among  the  rocks  and  waterfalls.  The  time  of 
highest  water  in  the  valley  varies  very  much 
in  different  seasons.  Last  year  it  was  highest 
about  the  end  of  June.  I  think,  perhaps,  the 
falls  would  be  seen  to  as  good  advantage  to 
wards  the  end  of  June  as  at  another  time,  and 
at  any  rate  there  will  be  a  thousand  times  more 
of  grandeur  than  any  person  can  absorb. 

Here,  then,  in  a  word  is  the  plan  which  I  pro 
pose:  That  you  take  the  stage  at  Stockton  for 
Mariposa.  At  Mariposa  you  procure  saddle- 
horses  and  one  pack-animal  for  your  tent,  blan 
kets,  provisions,  etc.,  (a  guide  will  be  furnished 
by  the  keeper  of  the  livery  -  stable  to  take 
charge  of  the  horses,)  and  that  I  meet  you  in  the 
valley,  which  I  can  do  without  difficulty  pro 
vided  you  send  me  word  by  the  first  of  June 
what  day  you  will  set  out  from  Stockton.  Ad 
dress  to  Hopeton. 

When  you  arrive  in  the  valley,  please  regis 
ter  your  name  at  Mr.  Hutchings'  hotel.  I  will 
[58  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

do  the  same.  If  you  should  wish  to  reach  me 
by  letter  after  I  have  started  with  the  sheep  to 
the  mountains,  you  may  perhaps  do  so  by  ad 
dressing  to  Coulterville. 

When  you  write,  state  whether  you  will  visit 
the  big  trees  on  your  way  to  the  valley  or 
whether  you  will  do  so  on  your  return. 

I  bid  you  good-bye,  thanking  the  Lord  for 
the  hope  of  seeing  you  and  for  his  goodness  to 
you  in  turning  your  face  towards  his  most  holy 
mansion  of  the  mountains. 

Hopeton,  May  2Oth,  1869. 

I  forgot  to  state  in  my  last  concerning  the 
Yosemite  that  I  did  not  receive  yours  until 
many  days  after  its  arrival,  as  I  was  shearing 
sheep  a  considerable  distance  from  here  in  the 
foothills,  and  the  postmaster,  knowing  where 
I  was,  could  not  forward  it;  but  I  will  remain 
here  until  the  ist  of  June,  or  possibly  a  few  days 
later,  and  will  receive  any  letters  arriving  for 
me  at  once  either  in  Snelling  or  Hopeton. 

The  grove  of  sequoias  is  only  six  miles  from 
[59] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  Yosemite  trail,  about  midway  between 
Mariposa  and  the  valley.  The  trail  leading 
through  the  groves  leaves  the  Yosemite  trail 
at  Mr.  Clark's,  where  you  can  obtain  all  neces 
sary  directions,  etc.  It  is  not  many  years  since 
this  grove  was  discovered.  The  sequoias  so 
often  described  and  so  well  known  throughout 
the  world  belong  to  the  Calaveras  grove.  The 
Mariposa  grove  has  a  much  larger  number  of 
trees  than  the  Calaveras,  and  it  is  in  all  the 
majesty  and  grandeur  of  nature  undisturbed. 

You  will  likely  make  the  journey  from  Mari 
posa  to  the  valley  in  two  days.  No  member  of 
your  company  need  be  afraid  of  this  mountain 
ride,  as  you  will  be  provided  with  sure-footed 
horses  accustomed  to  the  journey  and  an  ex 
perienced  guide. 

Most  persons  visiting  the  sequoia  grove  spend 
only  a  few  hours  in  it  and  depart  without  seeing 
a  single  tree,  for  the  chiefest  glories  of  these 
mountain  kings  are  wholly  invisible  to  hasty 
or  careless  observers.  I  hope  you  may  be  able 
to  spend  a  good  long  time  in  worship  amid  the 
[  60  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

glorious  columns  of  this  mountain  temple.  I 
fancy  they  are  aware  of  your  coming  and  are 
waiting.  I  fondly  hope  that  nothing  will  occur 
to  prevent  your  coming.  I  will  endeavor  to 
reach  the  valley  a  day  or  so  before  you.  The 
night  air  of  the  mountains  is  very  cold.  You 
will  require  plenty  of  warm  blankets. 

I  am  sorry  that  the  Doctor  has  been  so  sud 
denly  smothered  up  in  business.  If  he  and  the 
priest  were  in  the  company  according  to  the 
prophecy  our  joy  would  be  full. 

I  am  in  a  perfect  tingle  with  the  memories  of 
a  year  ago  and  with  anticipation  glowing  bright 
with  all  that  I  love. 

Farewell. 

JOHN  MUIR. 

I  received  your  letter  containing  "The  Song 
of  Nature"  by  Emerson  and  derived  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  from  it. 

J.  M. 


61 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Five  miles  west  of  Yosemite, 
July  n,  [1869.] 

I  need  not  try  to  tell  you  how  sorely  I  am 
pained  by  this  bitter  disappointment.  Your 
Mariposa  note  of  June  22  did  not  reach  Black's 
until  July  3d,  and  I  did  not  receive  it  until 
the  6th. 

I  met  a  shepherd  a  few  miles  from  here  yes 
terday  who  told  me  that  a  letter  from  Yosemite 
for  me  was  at  Harding's  Mills.  I  have  not  yet 
received  it.  No  dependence  can  be  placed  upon 
the  motions  of  letters  in  the  mountains,  and 
I  feared  this  result  on  my  not  receiving  any 
thing  definite  concerning  your  time  of  leaving 
Stockton  before  I  left  the  plains.  I  wish  now 
that  I  had  not  been  entangled  with  sheep  at 
all  but  that  I  had  remained  among  post-offices 
and  joined  your  party  at  Snellings. 

Thus  far  all  of  my  deepest,  purest  enjoyments 
have  been  taken  in  solitude,  and  the  fate  seems 
hard  that  has  hindered  me  from  sharing  Yo 
semite  with  you. 

We  are  camped  this  evening  among  a  bundle 
r  62  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

of  the  Merced's  crystal  arteries,  which  have  just 
gone  far  enough  from  their  silent  fountain  to  be 
full  of  lakelets  and  lilies  [?],  and  the  bleating 
of  our  flock  can  neither  confuse  nor  hush  the 
thousand  notes  of  their  celestial  song.  The  sun 
has  set,  and  these  glorious  shafts  of  the  spruce 
and  pine  shoot  higher  and  higher  as  the  dark 
ness  comes  on.  I  must  say  good  night  while 
bonds  of  Nature's  sweetest  influences  are  about 
me  in  these  sacred  mountain  halls,  and  I  know 
that  every  chord  of  your  being  has  throbbed  and 
tingled  with  the  same  mysterious  powers  when 
you  were  here.  Farewell.  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  you  have  been  allowed  to  bathe  your  ex 
istence  in  God's  glorious  Sierra  Nevadas  and 
sorry  that  I  could  not  meet  you. 

JOHN  MUIR. 

A  few  miles  north  of  Yosemite, 
July  isth,  [1869.] 

We  are  camped  this  afternoon  upon  the  bank 
of  the  stream  that  falls  into  the  valley  opposite 
Hutchings'  hotel  (Yosemite  Falls).     We  are 
perhaps  three  miles  from  the  valley. 
[63] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

This  Yosemite  stream  is  flowing  rapidly  here 
in  a  small  flowery  meadow,  not  meandering  like 
a  meadow  stream  but  going  straight  on  with 
ripples  and  rapids.  It  derives  its  waters  from 
a  basin  corresponding  in  every  respect  with  its 
own  sublimity  and  loneliness. 

July  i  yth.  We  are  now  camped  in  a  splendid 
grove  of  spruce  only  one  mile  from  the  Yosemite 
wall.  The  stream  that  goes  spraying  past  us 
in  the  rocks  reaches  the  valley  by  that  canon 
between  the  Yosemite  Falls  and  the  North 
Dome.  I  left  my  companions  in  charge  of  the 
sheep  for  the  last  three  days  and  have  had  a 
most  heavenly  piece  of  life  among  the  domes 
and  falls  and  rocks  of  the  north  side  and  upper 
end  of  the  valley. 

Yesterday  I  found  the  stream  that  flows 
through  Crystal  Lake  past  the  South  Dome  and 
followed  it  three  miles  among  cascades  and 
rapids  to  the  dome.  Were  you  at  the  top  or  bot 
tom  of  the  upper  Yosemite  Falls?  Were  you 
at  the  top  of  the  Nevada  Falls  ?  Were  you  in 
that  Adiantum  cave  by  the  Vernal  Falls  ?  Have 
[64] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

you  had  any  view  of  the  valley  excepting  from 
the  Mariposa  Trail?  How  long  were  you  in 
Sequoia  Grove  ? 

We  will,  perhaps,  be  here  about  two  weeks; 
then  we  will  go  to  the  "big  meadows"  twelve 
miles  towards  the  summit,  where  we  will  re 
main  until  we  start  for  the  plains  some  time 
near  the  end  of  September.  The  kind  of  meet 
ing  you  have  had  with  Yosemite  answers  well 
enough  for  most  people,  but  it  will  not  do  for 
you.  When  will  you  return  to  the  mountains  ? 

I  had  a  letter  from  Professor  Butler  a  short 
time  ago,  saying  that  he  would  probably  visit 
California  this  month  in  company  with  a  man 
of  war. 

Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and  to  Allie  and 
Ned.  Please  send  me  a  letter  by  the  middle 
of  September  to  Snellings.  I  have  no  hope  of 
hearing  from  you  after  we  start  for  the  Big 
Meadows. 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Two  miles  below  La  Grange, 
October  3rd,  1869. 

My  summer  in  the  third  heaven  of  the  Sierras 
is  past.  I  am  again  in  the  smooth  open  world 
of  plains.  I  received  three  of  your  eight  notes, 
which  for  mountain  correspondence  is  about 
as  might  be  expected.  I  learned  by  a  San  Fran 
cisco  newspaper  that  Dr.  Carr  had  accepted 
a  professorship  in  the  University,  and  Prof. 
Butler  told  me  about  a  month  ago  that  he  had 
gone  to  Madison  to  fetch  his  cabinet,  etc.  There 
fore  I  know  that  you  are  making  a  fixed  home 
and  that  you  will  yet  see  the  mountains  and  the 
Joaquin  plains.  We  were  camped  within  a  mile 
or  two  of  the  Yosemite  north  wall  for  three 
weeks.  I  used  to  go  to  the  North  Dome  or 
Yosemite  Falls  most  every  day  to  sketch  and 
listen  to  the  waters.  One  day  I  went  down  into 
the  valley  by  the  canon  opposite  Hutchings  and 
found  Prof.  Butler  near  the  bridge  between  the 
Vernal  and  Nevada  falls.  He  was  in  company 
with  Gen.  Alvord.  He  was  in  the  valley  only 
a  few  hours,  his  time  being  controlled  by  the 
[  66] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

General's  military  clock,  and  I  am  pretty  sure 
that  he  saw  just  about  nothing. 

I  am  glad  that  the  world  does  not  miss  me 
and  that  all  of  my  days  with  the  Lord  and  his 
works  are  uncounted  and  unmeasured.  I  found 
the  guide  who  was  with  you.  He  said  that  you 
wished  me  to  gather  some  cones  for  you.  I 
hope  to  see  you  soon  in  San  Francisco  and  will 
fetch  you  specimens  of  those  which  grow  higher 
than  you  have  been.  I  am  sorry  that  you  were 
so  short  a  time  in  the  valley,  but  you  will  go 
again  and  remain  a  month  or  two.  I  would  like 
to  spend  a  winter  there  to  see  the  storms.  We 
spent  most  of  the  summer  on  the  south  fork  of 
the  Tuolumne  near  Castle  and  Cathedral  peaks, 
and  oh,  how  unspeakable  the  glories  of  these 
higher  mountains.  You  have  not  yet  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas.  You  must  go 
to  Mono  by  the  Bloody  Canon  pass.  I  will  not 
try  to  write  the  grandeur  I  have  seen  all  sum 
mer  but  I  will  copy  you  the  notes  of  one  day 
from  my  journal. 

"Sept.  2nd.  Amount  of  cloudiness  .08.  Sky 
[67] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

red  evening  and  morning,  not  usual  crimson 
glow  but  separate  clouds  colored  and  anchored 
in  dense  massive  mountain  forms.  One  red, 
bluffy  cap  is  placed  upon  Castle  Peak  and  its 
companion  to  the  south,  but  the  smooth  cone 
tower  of  the  castle  is  seen  peering  out  over  the 
top.  Tiger  Peak  has  a  cloud  cap  also  of  the 
grandest  proportion  and  colors,  and  the  exten 
sive  field  of  clustered  towers  and  peaks  and 
domes  where  is  stored  the  treasures  of  snow  be 
longing  to  the  Merced  and  Tuolumne  and  Joa- 
quin  is  embosomed  in  bossy  clouds  of  white. 
The  grand  Sierra  Cathedral  is  overshadowed 
like  Sinai.  Never  before  beheld  such  divine 
mingling  of  cloud  and  mountain.  Had  a  delight 
ful  walk  upon  the  north  wall.  Ascended  by  a 
deep  narrow  passage  cut  in  the  granite.  Its 
borders  are  splendidly  decorated  with  ferns 
and  blooming  shrubs.  The  most  delicate  of 
plantlets  in  the  gush  and  ardor  of  full  bloom  in 
places  called  desolate  and  gloomy,  where  the 
dwarfed  and  crumpled  pines  are  felled  with  hail 
and  rocks  and  wintry  snows ;  but  as  frail  flowers 
[  68] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

of  human  kind  are  protected  by  the  hand  of 
God,  blooming  joyfully  through  a  long  beauti 
ful  life  in  places  and  times  that  are  strewn  with 
the  wrecks  of  the  powerful  and  the  great,  so  in 
these  far  mountains,  where  are  the  treasures  of 
snow  and  storms,  live  in  safety  and  innocence 
these  sweet,  tender  children  of  the  plants. 
Had  looked  long  and  well  for  Cassiope,  but  in 
all  my  long  excursions  failed  to  find  its  dwelling- 
places  and  began  to  fear  that  we  would  never 
meet,  but  had  presentiment  of  finding  it  to 
day,  and  as  I  passed  a  rock-shelf  after  reaching 
the  great  gathered  heaps  of  everlasting  snow, 
something  seemed  to  whisper  'Cassiope,  Cas 
siope.5  That  name  was  'driven  in  upon  me/ 
as  Calvinists  say,  and,  looking  around,  behold 
the  long-looked-for  mountain  child!" 

Farewell!  I  do  not  care  to  write  much  be 
cause  you  seem  so  near.  I  hope  that  you  will 
all  be  very  happy  in  your  new  home  and  not 
feel  too  sorely  the  separation  from  the  loved 
places  and  people  of  Wisconsin. 

[69] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and  to  all  of 
your  boys. 

I  am  most  cordially, 

Your  friend, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

La  Grange,  November  15,  1869. 

DEAR  FRIENDS  MRS.  AND  DR.  CARR:  — 

I  thank  you  most  heartily  for  the  very  kind 
invitation  you  send  me.  I  could  enjoy  a  blink 
of  rest  in  your  new  home  with  a  relish  that  only 
those  can  know  who  have  suffered  solitary  ban 
ishment  for  so  many  years,  but  I  must  return 
to  the  mountains,  to  Yosemite.  I  am  told  that 
the  winter  storms  there  will  not  be  easily  borne, 
but  I  am  bewitched,  enchanted,  and  to-morrow 
I  must  start  for  the  great  temple  to  listen  to  the 
winter  songs  and  sermons  preached  and  sung 
only  there. 

The  plains  here  are  green  already  and  the 
upper  mountains  have  the  pearly  whiteness  of 
their  first  snows. 

Farewell.    I  will  bring  you  some  cones  in 
M  70] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  spring.   I  hope  that  you  enjoy  your  labor 
in  your  new  sphere. 
My  love  to  all  your  family,  and  I  am 
Yours  most  cordially, 

JOHN  Mum. 

Yosemite,  December  6th,  1869. 

I  am  feasting  in  the  Lord's  mountain  house, 
and  what  pen  may  write  my  blessings  ?  I  am 
going  to  dwell  here  all  winter  magnificently 
"Snowbound"?  Just  think  of  the  grandeur  of 
the  mountain  winter  in  the  Yosemite !  Would 
that  you  could  enjoy  it  also! 

I  read  your  word  in  pencil  upon  the  bridge 
below  the  Nevada,  and  I  thank  you  for  it  most 
devoutly.  No  one  or  all  the  Lord's  blessings  can 
enable  me  to  exist  without  a  friend  indeed. 

There  is  no  snow  in  the  valley.  The  ground 
is  covered  with  the  brown  and  yellow  leaves  of 
the  oak  and  maple,  and  their  crisping  and  rust 
ling  makes  one  think  of  the  groves  of  Madison. 
I  have  been  wandering  about  among  the  falls 
and  rapids,  studying  the  grand  instruments  of 
[71  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

slopes  and  curves  and  echoing  caves  upon  which 
those  divine  harmonies  are  played.  Only  a  thin 
flossy  veil  sways  and  bends  over  Yosemite  now, 
and  Pohono  is  a  web  of  waving  mist.  New 
songs  are  sung,  forming  parts  of  the  one  grand 
anthem  composed  and  written  "  in  the  begin 
ning." 

Most  of  the  flowers  are  dead.  Only  a  few  are 
blooming  in  summer  nooks  on  the  north  side 
rocks.  You  remember  that  delightful  fernery 
by  the  ladders.  Well,  I  discovered  a  garden 
meeting  of  adiantum  far  more  delicate  and  lux 
uriant  than  those  of  the  ladders.  They  are  in 
a  cover  or  coverlet  between  the  upper  and  lower 
Yosemite  Falls.  They  are  the  most  delicate  and 
graceful  plant  creatures  I  ever  beheld,  waving 
themselves  in  lines  of  the  most  refined  of  heav 
en's  beauty  to  the  music  of  the  water.  The  mo 
tion  of  purple  dulses  in  pools  left  by  the  tide  on 
the  sea-coast  of  Scotland  was  the  only  memory 
that  was  stirred  by  these  spiritual  ferns.  You 
speak  of  dying  and  going  to  the  woods;  I  am 
dead  and  gone  to  heaven. 
[  72  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

r  An  Indian  comes  to  the  valley  once  a  month 
upon  snowshoes.  He  brings  the  mail,  and  so 
I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you.  Address  to 
Yosemite,  via  Big  Oak  Flat,  care  of  Mr. 
Hutchings. 

Yosemite,  April  5,  1870. 

I  wish  you  were  here  to-day,  for  our  rocks  are 
again  decked  with  deep  snow.  Two  days  ago  a 
big  gray  cloud  collared  Barometer  Dome.  The 
vast  booming  column  of  the  upper  falls  was 
swayed  like  a  shred  of  loose  mist  by  broken 
pieces  of  storm  that  struck  it  suddenly,  occa 
sionally  bending  it  backwards  to  the  very  top 
of  the  cliff,  making  it  hang  sometimes  more 
than  a  minute  like  an  inverted  bow  edged  with 
comets.  A  cloud  upon  the  dome  and  these  ever 
varying  rockings  and  bendings  of  the  falls  are 
sure  storm  signs,  but  yesterday  morning's  sky 
was  clear,  and  the  sun  poured  the  usual  quan 
tity  of  the  balmiest  spring  sunshine  into  the 
blue  ether  of  our  valley  gulf,  but  ere  long  ragged 
lumps  of  cloud  began  to  appear  all  along  the 
[  731 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

valley-rim,  coming  gradually  into  closer  ranks, 
and  rising  higher  like  rock  additions  to  the 
walls.  From  the  top  of  these  cloud-banks  fleecy 
fingers  arched  out  from  both  sides  and  met 
over  the  middle  of  the  meadows,  gradually 
thickening  and  blackening,  until  at  night  big, 
confident  snowflakes  began  to  fall.  We  thought 
that  the  last  snow-harvest  had  been  withered 
and  reaped  long  ago  by  the  glowing  sun,  for 
the  bluebirds  and  robins  sang  spring,  and  so  also 
did  the  bland,  unsteady  winds,  and  the  brown 
meadow  opposite  the  house  was  spotted  here 
and  there  with  blue  violets.  Carex  spikes  were 
shooting  up  through  the  dead  leaves,  and  the 
cherry  and  briar  rose  were  unfolding  their  leaves, 
and  besides  these  spring  wrote  many  a  sweet 
mark  and  word  that  I  cannot  tell ;  but  snow  fell 
all  the  hours  of  to-day  in  cold  winter  earnest, 
and  now  at  evening  there  rests  upon  rocks, 
trees,  and  weeds  as  full  and  ripe  a  harvest  of 
snow  flowers  as  I  ever  beheld  in  the  stormiest, 
most  opaque  days  of  midwinter. 


74 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

April  1 3th. 

About  twelve  inches  of  snow  fell  in  that  last 
snowstorm.  It  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  it 
came,  snatched  away  hastily  almost  before  it 
had  time  to  melt,  as  if  a  mistake  had  been  made 
in  allowing  it  to  come  here  at  all. 

A  week  of  spring  days  bright  in  every  hour, 
without  a  stain  or  thought  of  the  storm,  came 
in  glorious  colors,  giving  still  greater  pledges  of 
happy  life  to  every  living  creature  of  the  spring, 
but  a  loud,  energetic  snowstorm  possessed 
every  hour  of  yesterday.  Every  tree  and  broken 
weed  bloomed  yet  once  more;  all  summer  dis 
tinctions  were  leveled  off;  all  plants  and  the 
very  rocks  and  streams  were  equally  polypetal- 
ous. 

This  morning  winter  had  everything  in  the 
valley.  The  snow  drifted  about  in  the  frosty 
wind  like  meal,  and  the  falls  were  muffled  in 
thick  sheets  of  frozen  spray.  Thus  do  winter 
and  spring  leap  into  the  valley  by  turns,  each 
remaining  long  enough  to  form  a  small  season 
or  climate  of  its  own,  or  going  and  coming 
[  75  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

squarely  in  a  single  day.  Whitney  says  that 
the  bottom  has  fallen  out  of  the  rocks  here 
(which  I  most  devoutly  disbelieve).  Well,  the 
bottom  frequently  falls  out  of  these  winter 
clouds  and  climates.  It  is  seldom  that  any  long 
transition  slant  exists  between  dark  and  bright 
days  in  this  narrow  world  of  rocks. 

I  know  that  you  are  enchanted  with  the  April 
loveliness  of  your  new  home.  You  enjoy  the 
most  precious  kind  of  sunshine,  and  by  this 
time  flower-patches  cover  the  hills  about  Oak 
land  like  colored  clouds.  I  would  like  to  visit 
these  broad  outspread  blotches  of  social  flowers 
that  are  so  characteristic  of  your  hills,  but  far 
rather  would  I  see  and  feel  the  flowers  that  are 
now  at  Fountain  Lake  and  the  lakes  of  Madi 
son. 

Mrs.  Hutchings  thought  of  sending  you  a 
bulb  of  the  California  lily  by  mail  but  found 
it  too  large.  She  wished  to  be  remembered  to 
you.  Your  Squirrel  is  very  happy.  She  is  a 
rare  creature. 

I  hope  to  see  you  and  the  Doctor  soon  in  the 
[76] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

valley.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you  which 
I  will  not  try  to  write.  Remember  me  most  cor 
dially  to  the  Doctor  and  to  Allie  and  all  the 
boys.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  those  bo 
tanical  notes,  etc.,  and  I  am  ever  most 
Cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

Here  is  a  moss  with  a  globular  capsule  and  a 
squinted,  cowl-shaped  calyptra.  Do  you  know 
it? 

Yosemite,  May  lyth,  1870. 

Our  valley  is  just  gushing,  throbbing  full  of 
open,  absorbable  beauty,  and  I  feel  that  I  must 
tell  you  about  it.  I  am  lonely  among  my  en 
joyments;  the  valley  is  full  of  visitors,  but  I 
have  no  one  to  talk  to. 

The  season  that  is  with  us  now  is  about  what 
corresponds  to  full-fledged  spring  in  Wisconsin. 
The  oaks  are  in  full  leaf  and  have  shoots  long 
enough  to  bend  over  and  move  in  the  wind. 
The  good  old  bracken  is  waist-high  already, 
and  almost  all  the  rock  ferns  have  their  outer- 
[  77  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

most  fronds  unrolled.  Spring  is  in  full  power 
and  is  steadily  reaching  higher  like  a  shadow 
and  will  soon  reach  the  topmost  horizon  of  rocks. 
The  buds  of  the  poplar  opened  on  the  I9th  of 
last  month,  those  of  the  oaks  on  the  24th. 

May  ist  was  a  fine,  hopeful,  healthful,  cool, 
bright  day  with  plenty  of  the  fragrance  of  new 
leaves  and  flowers  and  of  the  music  of  bugs  and 
birds.  From  the  5th  to  I4th  was  extremely 
warm,  the  thermometer  averaging  about  85  de 
grees  at  noon  in  shade.  Craggy  banks  of  cumuli 
became  common  about  Storm  King  and  the 
Dome.  Flowers  came  in  troops.  The  upper 
snows  melted  very  fast,  raising  the  falls  to  their 
highest  pitch  of  glory.  The  waters  of  the  Yose- 
mite  Fall  no  longer  float  softly  and  downily  like 
hanks  of  spent  rockets  but  shoot  at  once  to  the 
bottom  with  tremendous  energy.  There  is  at 
least  ten  times  the  amount  of  water  in  the  val 
ley  that  there  was  when  you  were  here. 

In  crossing  the  valley  we  had  to  sail  in  the 
boat.  The  river  paid  but  little  attention  to  its 
banks,  flowing  over  the  meadow  in  great  river- 
[78] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

like  sheets.  But  last  Sunday,  ifjth,  was  a  dark 
day;  the  rich  streams  of  heat  and  light  were 
withheld;  the  thermometer  fell  suddenly  to 
35  degrees,  and  down  among  the  verdant  banks 
of  new  leaves,  and  groves  of  half-open  ferns, 
and  thick  settlements  of  confident  flowers,  came 
heavy  snow  in  big,  blinding  flakes,  coming 
down  with  a  steady  gait  and  taking  their  places 
gracefully  upon  shrinking  leaves  and  petals  as 
if  they  were  doing  exactly  right.  The  whole 
day  was  snowy  and  stormy  like  a  piece  of  early 
winter.  Snow  fell  also  on  the  i6th.  A  good 
many  of  the  ferns  and  delicate  flowers  are 
killed. 

There  are  about  fifty  visitors  in  the  valley  at 
present.  When  are  you  and  the  Doctor  coming? 
Mr.  Hutchings  has  not  yet  returned  from  Wash 
ington,  and  so  I  will  be  here  all  summer.  I  have 
not  heard  from  you  since  January. 

I  had  a  letter  the  other  day  from  Prof.  Butler. 
He  has  been  glancing  and  twinkling  about 
among  the  towns  of  all  the  States  at  a  most 
unsubstantial  velocity. 

[  79] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Did  you  see  the  gold  of  the  Joaquin  plains 
this  spring?  There  is  a  later  gold  in  October 
which  you  must  see. 

Remember  me  warmly  to  Dr.  Carr  and  all  the 
boys,  and  I  remain  always 

Most  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  Mum. 

Yosemite  via  Big  Oak  Flat. 

Yosemite,  Sunday,  May  29th,  1870. 

I  received  your  "apology"  two  days  ago  and 
ran  my  eyes  hastily  over  it  three  or  four  lines 
at  a  time  to  find  the  place  that  would  say  you 
were  coming,  but  you  "fear"  that  you  cannot 
come  at  all,  and  only  "hope"  that  the  Doctor 
may;  but  I  shall  continue  to  look  for  you  never 
theless.  The  Chicago  party  you  speak  of  were 
here  and  away  again  before  your  letter  arrived. 
All  sorts  of  human  stuff  is  being  poured  into  our 
valley  this  year,  and  the  blank,  fleshly  apathy 
with  which  most  of  it  comes  in  contact  with  the 
rock  and  water  spirits  of  the  place  is  most  amaz 
ing.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  thought  of  such 
[80] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

people  being  here,  Mrs.  Carr,  makes  you  "mad," 
but  after  all,  Mrs.  Carr,  they  are  about  harm 
less.  They  climb  sprawlingly  to  their  saddles 
like  overgrown  frogs  pulling  themselves  up  a 
stream-bank  through  the  bent  sedges,  ride  up 
the  valley  with  about  as  much  emotion  as  the 
horses  they  ride  upon,  and  comfortable  when 
they  have  "done  it  all,"  and  long  for  the  safety 
and  flatness  of  their  proper  homes. 

In  your  first  letter  to  the  valley  you  com 
plain  of  the  desecrating  influences  of  the  fashion 
able  hordes  about  to  visit  here,  and  say  that 
you  mean  to  come  only  once  more  and  "into 
the  beyond."  I  am  pretty  sure  that  you  are 
wrong  in  saying  and  feeling  so,  for  the  tide  of 
visitors  will  float  slowly  about  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  as  a  harmless  scum,  collecting  in  hotel 
and  saloon  eddies,  leaving  the  rocks  and  falls 
eloquent  as  ever  and  instinct  with  imperishable 
beauty  and  greatness.  And  recollect  that  the 
top  of  the  valley  is  more  than  half  way  to  real 
heaven,  and  the  Lord  has  many  mansions  away 
in  the  Sierra  equal  in  power  and  glory  to  Yo- 
[  81  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

semite,  though  not  quite  so  open,  and  I  venture 
to  say  that  you  will  yet  see  the  valley  many 
times  both  in  and  out  of  the  body. 

I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  the  coast  moun 
tains  to  sleep  on  Diablo,  —  Angelo  ere  this. 
I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  lifted  above  all  the 
effects  of  your  material  work.  There  is  a  pre 
cious  natural  charm  in  sleeping  under  the  open 
starry  sky.  You  will  have  a  very  perfect  view 
of  the  Joaquin  Valley  and  the  snowy,  pearly  wall 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  I  lay  for  weeks  last  sum 
mer  upon  a  bed  of  pine  leaves  at  the  edge  of  a 
[  ]  gentian  meadow  in  full  view  of  Mt.  Dana. 

Mrs.  Hutchings  says  that  the  lily  bulbs  were 
so  far  advanced  in  their  growth  when  she  dug 
some  to  send  you  that  they  could  not  be  packed 
without  being  broken,  but  I  am  going  to  be 
here  all  summer,  and  I  know  where  the  grand 
est  plantation  of  these  lilies  grow,  and  I  will  box 
up  as  many  of  them  as  you  wish,  together  with 
as  many  other  Yosemite  things  as  you  may  ask 
for  and  send  them  out  to  you  before  the  pack 
train  makes  its  last  trip.  I  know  the  Spircea 
[  82] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

you  speak  of.  It  is  abundant  all  around  the  top 
of  the  valley  and  on  the  rocks  at  Lake  Tenaya 
and  reaches  almost  to  the  very  summit  about 
Mt.  Dana.  There  is  also  a  purple  one  very  abun 
dant  on  the  fringe  meadows  of  Yosemite  Creek, 
a  mile  or  two  back  from  the  brink  of  the  Falls. 
Of  course  it  will  be  a  source  of  keen  pleasure  to 
me  to  procure  you  anything  you  may  desire. 
I  should  like  to  see  that  ground  again.  I  saw 
some  in  Cuba  but  they  did  not  exceed  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  feet  in  height. 

I  have  thought  of  a  walk  in  the  wild  gardens 
of  Honolulu,  and  now  that  you  speak  of  my  go 
ing  there  it  becomes  very  probable,  as  you  seem 
to  understand  me  better  than  I  do  myself.  I 
have  no  square  idea  about  the  time  I  shall  get 
myself  away  from  here.  I  shall  at  least  stay  till 
you  come.  I  fear  that  the  agave  will  be  in  the 
spirit  world  ere  that  time.  You  say  that  I  ought 
to  have  such  a  place  as  you  saw  in  the  gardens 
of  that  mile  and  a  half  of  climate.  Well,  I  think 
those  lemon  and  orange  groves  would  do,  per 
haps,  to  make  a  living,  but  for  a  garden  I  should 
[83] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

not  have  anything  less  than  a  piece  of  pure 
nature.  I  was  reading  Thoreau's  "Maine 
Woods"  a  short  time  ago.  As  described  by  him, 
these  woods  are  exactly  like  those  of  Canada 
West.  How  I  long  to  meet  Linnaea  and  Chiog- 
enes  hispidula  once  more!  I  would  rather  see 
these  two  children  of  the  evergreen  woods  than 
all  the  twenty-seven  species  of  palm  that  Agas- 
siz  met  on  the  Amazons. 

These  summer  days  "go  on"  calmly  and 
evenly.  Scarce  a  mark  of  the  frost  and  snow 
of  the  I5th  is  visible.  The  brackens  are  four  or 
five  feet  high  already.  The  earliest  azaleas  have 
opened,  and  the  whole  crop  of  bulbs  is  ready  to 
burst.  The  river  does  not  overflow  its  banks 
now,  but  it  is  exactly  brim-full.  The  thermom 
eter  averages  about  75  degrees  at  noon.  We 
have  sunshine  every  morning  from  a  bright 
blue  sky.  Ranges  of  cumuli  appear  towards  the 
summits  with  neat  regularity  every  day  about 
ii  o'clock,  making  a  splendid  background  for 
the  South  Dome.  In  a  few  hours  these  clouds 
disappear  and  give  up  the  sky  to  sunny  evening. 
[  84] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Mr.  Hutchings  arrived  here  from  Washing 
ton  a  week  ago.  There  are  sixty  or  seventy 
visitors  here  at  present. 

I  have  received  only  two  letters  from  you 
this  winter  and  spring,  dated  Jan.  22nd  and 
May  yth. 

I  kissed  your  untamed  one  for  you.  She 
wishes  that  she  knew  the  way  to  Oakland  that 
she  might  come  to  you. 

Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and  all  your 
boys  and  to  your  little  Allie.    I  remain  ever 
Yours  most  cordially, 

J.  Mum. 

[1870.] 

I  am  very,  very  blessed.  The  valley  is  full  of 
people  but  they  do  not  annoy  me.  I  revolve 
in  pathless  places  and  in  higher  rocks  than  the 
world  and  his  ribbony  wife  can  reach.  Had  I 
not  been  blunted  by  hard  work  in  the  mill  and 
crazed  by  Sabbath  raids  among  the  high  places 
of  this  heaven,  I  would  have  written  you  long 
since.  I  have  spent  every  Sabbath  for  the  last 
[  85  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

two  months  in  the  spirit  world,  screaming  among 
the  peaks  and  outside  meadows  like  a  negro 
Methodist  in  revival  time,  and  every  interven 
ing  clump  of  week-days  in  trying  to  fix  down 
and  assimilate  my  shapeless  harvests  of  revealed 
glory  into  the  spirit  and  into  the  common  earth 
of  my  existence;  and  I  am  rich,  rich  beyond 
measure,  not  in  rectangular  blocks  of  sifted 
knowledge  or  in  thin  sheets  of  beauty  hung  pic 
ture-like  about  "the  walls  of  memory,"  but  in 
unselected  atmospheres  of  terrestrial  glory  dif 
fused  evenly  throughout  my  whole  substance. 

Your  Brooksian  letters  I  have  read  with  a 
great  deal  of  interest,  they  are  so  full  of  the  spice 
and  poetry  of  unmingled  nature,  and  in  many 
places  they  express  my  own  present  feelings 
very  fully.  Quoting  from  your  Forest  Glen, 
"without  anxiety  and  without  expectation  all 
my  days  come  and  go  mixed  with  such  sweet 
ness  to  every  sense/'  and  again,  "I  don't  know 
anything  of  time  and  but  little  of  space."  "My 
whole  being  seemed  to  open  to  the  sun."  All 
this  I  do  most  comprehensively  appreciate  and 
[86] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

am  just  beginning  to  know  how  fully  congenial 
you  are.  Would  that  you  could  share  my  moun 
tain  enjoyments !  In  all  my  wanderings  through 
Nature's  beauty,  whether  it  be  among  the  ferns 
at  my  cabin  door  or  in  the  high  meadows  and 
peaks  or  amid  the  spray  and  music  of  water 
falls,  you  are  the  first  to  meet  me  and  I  often 
speak  to  you  as  verily  present  in  the  flesh. 

Last  Sabbath  I  was  baptized  in  the  irised 
foam  of  the  Vernal  and  in  the  divine  snow  of 
Nevada,  and  you  were  there  also  and  stood  in 
real  presence  by  the  sheet  of  joyous  rapids  be 
low  the  bridge. 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  McClure  and  Mc- 
Chesney  have  told  you  of  our  night  with  upper 
Yosemite.  Oh,  what  a  world  is  there  I  passed ! 
No,  I  had  another  night  there  two  weeks  ago, 
entering  as  far  within  the  veil  amid  equal  glory, 
together  with  Mr.  Frank  Shapleigh  of  Boston. 
Mr.  Shapleigh  is  an  artist  and  I  like  him.  He 
has  been  here  six  weeks  and  has  just  left  for 
home.  I  told  him  to  see  you  and  to  show  you 
his  paintings.  He  is  acquainted  with  Charles 
[87  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Sanderson  and  Mrs.  Waterston.  Mrs.  Water- 
ston  left  the  valley  before  your  letter  reached 
me,  but  one  morning  about  sunrise  an  old  lady 
came  to  the  mill  and  asked  me  if  I  was  the  man 
who  was  so  fond  of  flowers,  and  we  had  a  very 
earnest,  unceremonious  chat  about  the  valley 
and  about  "the  beyond/'  She  is  made  of  better 
stuff  than  most  of  the  people  of  that  heathen 
town  of  Boston,  and  so  also  is  Shapleigh. 

Mrs.  Yelverton  is  here  and  is  going  to  stop 
a  good  while.  Mrs.  Waterston  told  her  to  find 
me,  and  we  are  pretty  well  acquainted  now. 
She  told  me  the  other  day  she  was  going  to 
write  a  Yosemite  novel  and  that  Squirrel  and 
I  were  going  into  it.  I  was  glad  to  find  that  she 
knew  you.  I  have  not  seen  Prof.  Le  Conte. 
Perhaps  he  is  stopping  at  one  of  the  other 
hotels. 

Has  Mrs.  Rapley  or  Mr.  Colby  told  you 
about  our  camping  in  the  spruce  woods  on  the 
south  rim  of  the  valley  and  of  our  walk  at  day 
break  to  the  top  of  the  Sentinel  Dome  to  see 
the  sun  rise  out  of  the  crown  peaks  of  beyond  ? 
[  88  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

About  a  week  ago  at  daybreak  I  started  up 
the  mountain  near  Glacier  Point  to  see  Pohono 
in  its  upper  woods  and  to  study  the  kind  of  life 
it  lived  up  there.  I  had  a  glorious  day  and 
reached  my  cabin  at  daylight  by  walking  all 
night.  Oh,  what  a  night  among  those  moon 
shadows!  It  was  seven  o'clock  A.M.,  when  I 
reached  the  top  of  the  Cathedral  Rocks,  —  a 
most  glorious  twenty-two  hours  of  life  amid 
nameless  peaks  and  meadows  and  the  upper 
cataracts  of  Pohono. 

Mr.  Hutchings  told  me  next  morning  that 
I  had  done  two  or  three  days'  climbing  in  one 
and  that  I  was  shortening  my  life,  but  I  had  a 
whole  lifetime  of  enjoyment  and  I  care  but  lit 
tle  for  the  arithmetical  length  of  days.  I  can 
hardly  realize  that  I  have  not  yet  seen  you 
here. 

I  thank  you  for  sending  me  so  many  friends, 
but  I  am  waiting  for  you.  I  am  going  up  the 
mountain  soon  to  see  your  lily  garden  at  the  top 
of  Indian  Canon. 

"Let  the  Pacific  islands  lie." 
[89] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

My  love  to  Allie  and  all  your  boys  and  to  the 
Doctor.  Tell  him  that  I  have  been  tracing 
glaciers  in  all  the  principal  canons  towards  the 
summit. 

Ever  thine, 

J.  MUIR. 

Yosemite,  August  2Oth,  [1870.] 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  ten  days'  ramble 
with  Prof.  Le  Conte  and  his  students  in  the  be 
yond,  and  oh,  we  have  had  a  most  glorious  season 
of  terrestrial  grace.  I  do  wish  I  could  ramble 
ten  days  of  equal  size  in  very  heaven,  that  I 
could  compare  its  scenery  with  that  of  Bloody 
Canon  and  the  Tuolumne  meadows  and  Lake 
Tenaya  and  Mt.  Dana.  Our  first  camp  after 
leaving  the  valley  was  at  Eagle  Point,  overlook 
ing  the  valley  on  the  north  side,  from  which  a 
much  better  general  view  of  the  valley  and  the 
high  crest  of  the  Sierra  beyond  is  obtained  than 
from  Inspiration  Point.  There  we  watched  the 
long  shadows  of  sunset  upon  the  living  map  at 
our  feet,  and,  in  the  later  darkness  half  silvered 
[  90  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

by  the  moon,  went  far  out  of  human  cares  and 
human  civilization.  Our  next  camp  was  at  Lake 
Tenaya,  one  of  the  countless  multitudes  of 
starry  gems  that  make  this  topmost  mountain 
land  to  sparkle  like  a  sky.  After  moonrise  Le 
Conte  and  I  walked  to  the  lake-shore  and 
climbed  upon  a  big  sofa-shaped  rock  that  stood 
islet-like  a  little  way  out  in  the  shallow  water, 
and  here  we  found  another  bounteous  throne  of 
earthly  grace,  and  I  doubt  if  John  in  Patmos 
saw  grander  visions  than  we.  And  you  were 
remembered  there  and  we  cordially  wished  you 
with  us.  Our  next  sweet  home  was  upon  the  vel 
vet  gentian  meadows  of  the  South  Tuolumne. 
Here  we  feasted  upon  soda  and  burnt  ashy 
cakes  and  stood  an  hour  in  a  frigid  rain  with 
our  limbs  bent  forward  like  Lombardy  poplars 
in  a  gale,  but  ere  sunset  the  black  clouds  de 
parted,  our  shins  were  straightened  at  a  glow 
ing  fire,  we  forgot  the  cold  and  all  about  half- 
raw  mutton  and  alkaline  cakes,  the  grossest 
of  our  earthly  coils  was  shaken  off,  and  ere  the 
last  slant  sunbeams  left  the  dripping  meadow 
[91  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  spiry  mountain  peaks  we  were  again  in  the 
third  alpine  heaven  and  saw  and  heard  things 
equal  in  glory  to  the  purest  and  best  of  Yosem- 
ite  itself.  Our  next  camp  was  beneath  a  big 
gray  rock  at  the  foot  of  Mt.  Dana.  Here  we  had 
another  rainstorm,  which  drove  us  beneath  our 
rock,  where  we  lay  in  complicated  confusion, 
our  forty  limbs  woven  into  a  knotty  piece  of 
tissue  compact  as  felt. 

Next  day  we  worshiped  upon  high  places  on 
the  brown  cone  of  Dana  and  returned  to  our 
rock.  Next  day  walked  among  the  flowers  and 
cascades  of  Bloody  Canon  and  camped  at  the 
lake.  Rode  next  day  to  the  volcanic  cone  near 
est  to  the  lake,  and  bade  farewell  to  the  party 
and  climbed  to  the  highest  crater  in  the  whole 
range  south  of  the  Mono  Lake.  Well,  I  shall  not 
try  to  tell  you  anything,  as  it  is  unnecessary. 
Prof.  Le  Conte,  whose  company  I  enjoyed  ex 
ceedingly,  will  tell  you  all.  Ask  him  in  particu 
lar  to  tell  you  about  our  camp-meeting  on  the 
Tenaya  rock.  I  will  send  you  a  few  choice  moun 
tain  plant  children  by  Mrs.  Yelverton.  If  there 
[92] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

is  anything  in  particular  that  you  want,  let  me 
know.  Mrs.  Yelverton  will  not  leave  the  valley 
for  some  weeks,  and  you  have  time  to  write.  I 
am 

Ever  your  friend, 

J.  MUIR. 

Tuolumne  River,  two  miles  below  La  Grange, 

November  4th,  1870. 

Yours  of  October  2nd  reached  me  a  few  days 
since.  The  Amazon  and  Andes  have  been  in  all 
my  thoughts  for  many  years,  and  I  am  sure  that 
I  shall  meet  them  some  day  ere  I  die,  or  become 
settled  and  civilized  and  useful.  I  am  obliged  to 
you  for  all  this  information.  I  have  studied 
many  paths  and  plans  for  the  interior  of  South 
America,  but  none  so  easy  and  sure  ever  ap 
peared  as  this  of  your  letter.  I  thought  of  land 
ing  at  Guayaquil  and  crossing  the  mountains  to 
the  Amazon,  floating  to  Para,  subsisting  on  ber 
ries  and  quinine,  but  to  steam  along  the  palmy 
shores  with  company  and  comforts  is  perhaps 
more  practical  though  not  so  pleasant.  Haw- 
[93] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

thorne  says  that  steam  spiritualizes  travel,  but  I 
think  that  it  squarely  degrades  and  materializes 
travel.  However,  flies  and  fevers  have  to  be 
considered  in  this  case.  I  am  glad  that  Ned  has 
gone.  The  woods  of  the  Purus  will  be  a  grand 
place  for  the  growth  of  men.  It  must  be  that 
I  am  going  soon,  for  you  have  shown  me  the 
way.  People  say  that  my  wanderings  are  very 
mazy  and  methodless,  but  they  are  all  known 
to  you  in  some  way  before  I  think  of  them.  You 
are  a  prophet  in  the  concerns  of  my  little  out 
side  life,  and  pray,  what  says  the  spirit  about 
my  final  escape  from  Yosemite?  You  saw  me 
at  these  rock  altars  years  ago,  and  I  think  I 
shall  remain  among  them  until  you  take  me 
away.  I  reached  this  place  last  month  by  fol 
lowing  the  Merced  out  of  the  valley  and  through 
all  its  canons  to  the  plains  above  Snelling,  —  a 
most  glorious  walk. 

I  intended  returning  to  the  valley  ere  this, 

but  Mr.  Delaney,  the  man  with  whom  I  am 

stopping  at  present,  would  not  allow   me  to 

leave  before  I  had  plowed  his  field,  and  so  I  will 

[94] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

not  be  likely  to  see  Yosemite  again  before  Jan 
uary,  when  I  shall  have  a  grand  journey  over 
the  snow. 

Mrs.  Yelverton  told  me  before  I  started  upon 
my  river  explorations  that  she  would  likely  be 
in  Oakland  in  two  weeks,  and  so  I  made  up  a 
package  for  you  of  lily  bulbs,  cones,  ferns,  etc., 
but  she  wrote  me  a  few  days  ago  that  she  was 
still  in  the  valley. 

I  find  that  a  portion  of  my  specimens  col 
lected  in  the  last  two  years  and  left  at  this  place 
and  Hopeton  are  not  very  well  cared  for,  and 
I  have  concluded  to  send  them  to  you. 

I  will  ship  them  in  a  few  days  by  express,  and 
I  will  be  down  myself  perhaps  in  about  a  year. 
If  there  is  anything  in  these  specimens  that  the 
Doctor  can  make  use  of  in  his  lectures,  tell  him 
to  do  so  freely,  of  course. 

The  purple  of  these  plains  and  of  this  whole 
round  sky  is  very  impressively  glorious  after  a 
year  in  the  deep  rocks.  People  all  throughout 
this  section  are  beginning  to  hear  of  Dr.  Carr. 
He  accomplishes  a  wonderful  amount  of  work. 
[95  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

My  love  to  Allie  and  to  the  Doctor,  and  I  am 
ever  most 

Cordially  yours, 

JOHN  Mum. 
Address  to  Snelling  for  the  next  few  months. 

Yosemite,  [1871.] 

"The  Spirit"  has  again  led  me  into  the 
wilderness,  in  opposition  to  all  counter  attrac 
tions,  and  I  am  once  more  in  the  glory  of  the 
Yosemite. 

Your  very  cordial  invitation  to  your  home 
reached  me  as  I  was  preparing  to  ascend  and 
my  whole  being  was  possessed  with  visions  of 
snowy  forests  of  the  pine  and  spruce,  and  of 
mountain  spires  beyond,  pearly  and  half  trans 
parent,  reaching  into  heavens  blue  not  purer 
than  themselves. 

In  company  with  another  young  fellow  whom 
I  persuaded  to  walk,  I  left  the  plains  just  as  the 
first  gold  sheets  were  being  outspread.  My  first 
plan  was  to  follow  the  Tuolumne  upward  as  I 
had  followed  the  Merced  downward,  and,  after 
[  96  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

reaching  the  Hetch  Hetchy  Valley,  which  has 
about  the  same  altitude  as  Yosemite,  and  spend 
ing  a  week  or  so  in  sketching  and  examining  its 
falls  and  rocks,  to  cross  the  high  mountains 
past  the  west  end  of  the  Hoffman  Range  and 
go  down  into  Yosemite  by  Indian  Canon,  pass 
ing  thus  a  glorious  month  with  the  mountains 
and  all  their  snows  and  crystal  brightness,  and 
all  the  nameless  glories  of  their  magnificent 
winter;  but  my  plan  went  agley.  I  lost  a  week's 
sleep  by  the  pain  of  a  sore  hand,  and  I  became 
unconfident  in  my  strength  when  measured 
against  weeks  of  wading  in  snow  up  to  my  neck. 
Therefore  I  reluctantly  concluded  to  push 
directly  for  the  valley  and  Tamarac. 

Our  journey  was  just  a  week  in  length,  in 
cluding  one  day  of  rest  in  the  Crane's  Flat 
Cabin.  Some  of  our  nights  were  cold,  and  we 
were  hungry  once  or  twice.  We  crossed  the 
snow-line  on  the  flank  of  Pilot  Peak  Ridge  six 
or  eight  miles  below  Crane's  Flat.  From  Crane's 
Flat  to  brim  of  the  valley  the  snow  was  about 
five  feet  in  depth,  and  as  it  was  not  frozen  or 
(97  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

compacted  in  any  way  we  of  course  had  a 
splendid  season  of  wading. 

I  wish  that  you  could  have  seen  the  edge  of 
the  snow-cloud  which  hovered,  oh,  so  sooth 
ingly,  down  to  the  grand  Pilot  Peak  brows,  dis 
charging  its  heaven-begotten  snows  with  such 
unmistakable  gentleness  and  moving  perhaps 
with  conscious  love  from  pine  to  pine  as  if  be 
stowing  separate  and  independent  blessings  up 
on  each.  In  a  few  hours  we  climbed  under  and 
into  this  glorious  storm-cloud.  What  a  harvest 
of  crystal  flowers  and  what  wind  songs  were 
gathered  from  the  spiry  firs  and  the  long  fringy 
arms  of  the  Lambert  pine !  We  could  not  see  far 
before  us  in  the  storm,  which  lasted  until  some 
time  in  the  night,  but  as  I  was  familiar  with  the 
general  map  of  the  mountain  we  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  finding  our  way. 

Crane's  Flat  Cabin  was  buried,  and  we  had 
to  grope  about  for  the  door.  After  making  a  fire 
with  some  cedar  rails,  I  went  out  to  watch  the 
coming-on  of  the  darkness,  which  was  most  im 
pressively  sublime.  Next  morning  was  every 
[98] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

way  the  purest  creation  I  ever  beheld.  The 
little  flat,  spot-like  in  the  massive  spiring  woods, 
was  in  splendid  vesture  of  universal  white,  up 
on  which  the  grand  forest-edge  was  minutely 
repeated  and  covered  with  a  close  sheet  of  snow 
flowers. 

Some  mosses  grow  luxuriantly  upon  the  dead 
generations  of  their  own  species.  The  common 
snow  flowers  belong  to  the  sky  and  in  storms 
are  blown  about  like  ripe  petals  in  an  orchard. 
They  settle  on  the  ground,  the  bottom  of  the 
atmospheric  sea,  like  mud  or  leaves  in  a  lake, 
and  upon  this  soil,  this  field  of  broken  sky 
flowers,  grows  a  luxuriant  carpet  of  crystal  veg 
etation  complete  and  ripe  in  a  single  night. 

I  never  before  knew  that  these  mountain 
snow  plants  were  so  variable  and  abundant, 
forming  such  bushy  clumps  and  thickets  and 
palmy,  ferny  groves.  Wading  waist-deep,  I  had 
a  fine  opportunity  for  observing  them,  but  they 
shrink  from  human  breath,  —  not  the  only  flow 
ers  which  do  so,  —  evidently  not  made  for  man, 
neither  the  flowers  composing  the  snow  which 
[  99  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

came  drifting  down  to  us  broken  and  dead,  nor 
the  more  beautiful  crystals  which  vegetate 
upon  them.  A  great  many  storms  have  come  to 
these  mountains  since  I  passed  them,  and  they 
can  hardly  be  less  than  ten  feet ;  at  the  altitude 
of  Tamarac  still  more. 

The  weather  here  is  balmy  now,  and  the  falls 
are  glorious.  Three  weeks  ago  the  thermometer 
at  sunrise  stood  at  12  degrees. 

I  have  repaired  the  mill  and  dam,  and  the 
stream  is  in  no  danger  of  drying  up  and  is  more 
dammed  than  ever. 

To-day  has  been  cloudy  and  rainy.  Tissiack 
and  Starr  King  are  grandly  dipped  in  white 
cloud. 

I  sent  you  my  plants  by  express.  I  am  sorry 
that  my  Yosemite  specimens  are  not  with  the 
others. 

I  left  a  few  notes  with  Mrs.  Yelverton  when 
I  left  the  valley  in  the  fall.  I  wish  that  you  would 
ask  her,  if  you  should  see  her,  where  she  left 
them,  as  Mrs.  Hutchings  does  not  know. 

I  shall  be  happy  to  join  Stoddard  in  anything 

f   100  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

whatever.  Mrs.  H.  had  a  letter  from  him  lately, 
part  of  which  she  read  to  me.  And  now,  Mrs. 
Carr,  you  must  see  the  upper  mountains  and 
meadows  back  of  Yosemite.  You  have  seen 
nothing  as  yet,  and  I  will  guide  you  a  whole 
summer  if  you  wish.  I  am  very  happy  here  and 
cannot  break  for  the  Andes  just  yet. 

Squirrel  is  at  my  knee.  She  says,  "  Tell  Mrs. 
Carr  to  come  here  to-morrow  and  tell  her  to 
bring  her  little  boy  when  she  conies."  If  you 
will  come,  she  says  that  she  will  guide  you  to 
the  falls  and  give  you  lots  of  flowers.  Mrs.  H. 
tells  me  to  say  that  she  has  received  a  very  kind 
letter  from  you,  which  she  will  answer.  Sends 
thus  her  kindest  regards.  If  she  can  find  a  chance, 
she  will  send  bulbs  of  lily  by  mail. 

I  have  been  nearly  blind  since  I  crossed  the 
snow. 

Give  my  kindest  regards  to  all  your  homeful 
and  to  my  friends. 

I  am  always 

Yours  most  cordially, 

J.  M. 
f  101  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite, 
August  I3th,  [1871.] 

I  was  so  stunned  and  dazed  by  your  last  that 
I  have  not  been  able  to  write  anything.  I  was 
sure  that  you  were  coming,  and  you  cannot 
come;  and  Mr.  King,  the  artist,  left  me  the 
other  day  and  I  am  done  with  Hutchings,  and 
I  am  lonely.  Well  it  must  be  wait,  for  although 
there  is  no  common  human  reason  why  I  should 
not  see  you  and  civilization  in  Oakland,  I  can 
not  escape  from  the  powers  of  the  mountains. 
I  shall  tie  some  flour  and  a  blanket  behind  my 
saddle  and  return  to  the  Mono  region  and  try 
to  decide  some  questions  that  require  undis 
turbed  thought.  There  I  will  stalk  about  on  the 
summit  slates  of  Dana  and  Gibbs  and  Lyell, 
reading  new  chapters  of  glacial  manuscript  and 
more  if  I  can.  Then,  perhaps,  I  will  follow  the 
Tuolumne  down  to  the  Hetch  Hetchy  Yosemite ; 
then,  perhaps,  follow  the  Yosemite  stream  back 
to  its  smallest  source  in  the  mountains  of  the 
Lyell  group  and  the  Cathedral  group  and  the 
Obelisk  and  Mt.  Hoffman.  This  will,  perhaps, 
f  102  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

be  my  work  until  the  coming  of  the  winter 
snows,  when  I  will  probably  find  a  sheltered 
rock  nook  where  I  can  make  a  nest  of  leaves 
and  mosses  and  doze  until  spring. 

I  expect  to  be  entirely  alone  in  these  moun 
tain  walks,  and,  notwithstanding  the  glorious 
portion  of  daily  bread  which  my  soul  will  re 
ceive  in  these  fields  where  only  the  footprints 
of  God  are  seen,  the  gloamin'  will  be  lonely,  but 
I  will  cheerfully  pay  the  price  of  friendship  and 
all  besides. 

I  suppose  that  you  have  seen  Mr.  King,  who 
kindly  carried  some  flies  for  Mr.  Edwards.  I 
thought  you  would  easily  see  him  or  let  him 
know  that  you  had  his  specimens.  I  collected 
most  of  them  upon  Mt.  Hoffman,  but  was  so 
busy  in  assisting  Reilly  that  I  could  not  do 
much  in  butterflies.  Hereafter  I  shall  be  entire 
ly  free. 

The  purples  and  yellows  begin  to  come  in 

the  green  of  our  groves,  and  the  rocks  have  the 

autumn  haze,  and  the  water  songs  are  at  their 

lowest  hushings ;  young  birds  are  big  as  old  ones ; 

[  103] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  is  it  true  that  these  are  Bryant's  Melan 
choly  Days?  I  don't  know,  I  will  not  think, 
but  I  will  go  above  these  brooding  days  to  the 
higher,  brighter  mountains. 

Farewell. 

Cordially  ever  yours, 

JOHN  Mum. 

\  I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  soon.  I  will 
come  down  some  of  the  valley  canons  occasion 
ally  for  letters. 

I  am  sorry  that  you  are  so  laden  with  Uni 
versity  cares.  I  think  that  you  and  the  Doctor 
do  more  than  your  share. 

Do  you  know  anything  about  this  Liebig's 
extract  of  meat  ?  I  would  like  to  carry  a  year's 
provisions  in  the  form  of  condensed  bread  and 
meat,  and  I  have  been  thinking  perhaps  all  that 
I  want  is  in  the  market. 


Yosemite, 
September  8th,  [1871.] 

I  am  sorry  that  King  made  you  uneasy  about 
me.  He  does  not  understand  me  as  you  do,  and 
[  104  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

you  must  not  heed  him  so  much.  He  thinks  that 
I  am  melancholy  and  above  all  that  I  require 
polishing.  I  feel  sure  that  if  you  were  here  to 
see  how  happy  I  am  and  how  ardently  I  am 
seeking  a  knowledge  of  the  rocks,  you  could  not 
call  me  away  but  would  gladly  let  me  go  with 
only  God  and  his  written  rocks  to  guide  me. 
You  would  not  think  of  calling  me  to  make 
machines  or  a  home,  or  of  rubbing  me  against 
other  minds,  or  of  setting  me  up  for  measure 
ment.  No,  dear  friend,  you  would  say:  "Keep 
your  mind  untrammelled  and  pure.  Go  unfric- 
tioned,  unmeasured,  and  God  give  you  the 
true  meaning  and  interpretation  of  his  moun 


tains." 


You  know  that  for  the  last  three  years  I  have 
been  ploddingly  making  observations  about  this 
valley  and  the  high  mountain  region  to  the  east 
of  it,  drifting  broodingly  about  and  taking  in 
every  natural  lesson  that  I  was  fitted  to  absorb. 
In  particular  the  great  valley  has  always  kept 
a  place  in  my  mind.  What  tools  did  he  use? 
How  did  he  apply  them  and  when?  I  consid- 
[  105] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ered  the  sky  above  it  and  all  of  its  opening 
canons,  and  studied  the  forces  that  came  in  by 
every  door  that  I  saw  standing  open,  but  I 
could  get  no  light.  Then  I  said:  "You  are  at 
tempting  what  is  not  possible  for  you  to  ac 
complish.  Yosemite  is  the  end  of  a  grand  chap 
ter;  if  you  would  learn  to  read  it,  go  commence 
at  the  beginning."  Then  I  went  above  to  the 
alphabet  valleys  of  the  summits,  comparing 
canon  with  canon,  with  all  their  varieties  of 
rock-structure  and  cleavage  and  the  compara 
tive  size  and  slope  of  the  glaciers  and  waters 
which  they  contained;  also  the  grand  congre 
gations  of  rock-creations  was  present  to  me,  and 
I  studied  their  forms  and  sculpture.  I  soon  had 
a  key  to  every  Yosemite  rock  and  perpendicular 
and  sloping  wall.  The  grandeur  of  these  forces 
and  their  glorious  results  overpower  me  and 
inhabit  my  whole  being.  Waking  or  sleeping, 
I  have  no  rest.  In  dreams  I  read  blurred  sheets 
of  glacial  writing,  or  follow  lines  of  cleavage, 
or  struggle  with  the  difficulties  of  some  extraor 
dinary  rock-form.  Now  it  is  clear  that  woe  is 
[  106] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

me  if  I  do  not  drown  this  tendency  towards  ner 
vous  prostration  by  constant  labor  in  working 
up  the  details  of  this  whole  question.  I  have 
been  down  from  the  upper  rocks  only  three  days 
and  am  hungry  for  exercise  already. 

Prof.  Runkle,  president  of  the  Boston  Insti 
tute  of  Technology,  was  here  last  week,  and 
I  preached  my  glacial  theory  to  him  for  five 
days,  taking  him  into  the  canon  of  the  valley 
and  up  among  the  grand  glacier  wombs  and 
pathways  of  the  summit.  He  was  fully  con 
vinced  of  the  truth  of  my  readings  and  urged 
me  to  write  out  the  glacial  system  of  Yosemite 
and  its  tributaries  for  the  Boston  Academy  of 
Science.  I  told  him  that  I  meant  to  write  my 
thoughts  for  my  own  use  and  that  I  would  send 
him  the  manuscript,  and  if  he  and  his  wise  sci 
entific  brothers  thought  it  of  sufficient  interest 
they  might  publish  it. 

He  is  going  to  send  me  some  instruments, 

and  I  mean  to  go  over  all  the  glacier  basins 

carefully,  working  until  driven  down  by  the 

snow.  In  winter  I  can  make  my  drawings  and 

[  107  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

maps  and  write  out  notes.  So  you  see  that  for 
a  year  or  two  I  will  be  very  busy.  I  have  settled 
with  Hutchings  and  have  no  dealings  with  him 
now. 

I  think  that  next  spring  I  will  have  to  guide 
a  month  or  two  for  pocket  money,  although  I 
do  not  like  the  work.  I  suppose  I  might  live  for 
one  or  two  seasons  without  work.  I  have  five 
hundred  dollars  here,  and  I  have  been  sending 
home  money  to  my  sisters  and  brothers, — 
perhaps  about  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  dol 
lars,  —  and  a  man  in  Canada  owes  me  three  or 
four  hundred  dollars  more,  which  I  suppose  I 
could  get  if  I  was  in  need,  but  you  know  that 
the  Scotch  do  not  like  to  spend  their  last  dol 
lar.  Some  of  my  friends  are  badgering  me  to 
write  for  some  of  the  magazines,  and  I  am  al 
most  tempted  to  try  it,  only  I  am  afraid  that 
this  would  distract  my  mind  from  my  work 
more  than  the  distasteful  and  depressing  labor 
of  the  mill  or  of  guiding.  What  do  you  think 
about  it  ? 

k   Suppose  I  should  give  some  of  the  journals 
[  108  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

my  first  thoughts  about  this  glacier  work  as  I 
go  along  and  afterwards  gather  them  and  press 
them  for  the  Boston  wise ;  or  will  it  be  better 
to  hold  work  and  say  it  all  at  a  breath  ?  You 
see  how  practical  I  have  become  and  how 
fully  I  have  burdened  you  with  my  little 
affairs. 

Perhaps  you  will  ask,  "What  plan  are  you 
going  to  pursue  in  your  work  ? "  Well,  here  it  is, 
—  the  only  book  I  ever  have  invented.  First 
I  will  describe  each  glacier  with  its  tributaries 
separately,  then  describe  the  rocks  and  hills 
and  mountains  over  which  they  have  flowed  or 
past  which  they  have  flowed,  endeavoring  to 
prove  that  all  of  the  various  forms  which  those 
rocks  now  have  are  the  necessary  result  of  the 
ice  action  in  connection  with  their  structure 
and  cleavage,  etc.  Also  the  different  kinds  of 
canons  and  lake-basins  and  meadows  which 
they  have  made.  Then,  armed  with  this  data, 
I  will  come  down  to  the  Yosemite,  where  all 
my  ice  has  come,  and  prove  that  each  dome  and 
brow  and  wall  and  every  grace  and  spire  and 
[  109  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

brother  is  the  necessary  result  of  the  delicately 
balanced  blows  of  well-directed  and  combined 
glaciers  against  the  parent  rocks  which  con 
tained  them,  only  thinly  carved  and  moulded 
in  some  instances  by  the  subsequent  action  of 
water,  etc. 

Libby  sent  me  Tyndall's  new  book,  and  I 
have  looked  hastily  over  it.  It  is  an  Alpine 
mixture  of  very  pleasant  taste,  and  I  wish  I 
could  enjoy  reading  and  talking  it  with  you. 
I  expect  Mrs.  H.  will  accompany  her  husband 
to  the  East  this  winter,  and  there  will  not  be 
one  left  with  whom  I  can  exchange  a  thought. 
Mrs.  H.  is  going  to  leave  me  out  all  the  books 
I  want,  and  Runkle  is  going  to  send  me  Dar 
win.  These,  with  my  notes  and  maps,  will  fill 
my  winter  hours,  if  my  eyes  do  not  fail,  and, 
now  that  you  see  my  whole  position,  I  think 
that  you  would  not  call  me  to  the  excitements 
and  distracting  novelties  of  civilization. 

The  bread  question  is  very  troublesome.  I 
will  eat  anything  you  think  will  suit  me.  Send 
up  either  by  express  to  Big  Oak  Flat  or  by  any 
[  1 10  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

other  chance,  and  I  will  remit  the  money  re 
quired  in  any  way  you  like. 

My  love  to  all  and  more  thanks  than  I  can 
write  for  your  constant  kindness. 

Yosemite  Valley,  February  13,  1872. 

Your  latest  letter  is  dated  December  3ist. 
I  see  that  some  of  our  letters  are  missing.  I  re 
ceived  the  box  and  ate  the  berries  and  Liebig's 
extract  long  ago  and  told  you  all  about  it,  but 
Mrs.  Yelverton's  book  and  magazine  articles 
I  have  not  yet  seen.  Perhaps  they  may  come 
next  mail.  How  did  you  send  them  ?  I  sympa 
thize  with  your  face  and  your  great  sorrows, 
but  you  will  bathe  in  the  fountain  of  light,  life, 
and  love  of  our  mountains  and  be  healed.  And 
here  I  wish  to  say  that  when  you  and  Al  and 
the  Doctor  come,  I  wish  to  be  completely  free. 
Therefore  let  me  know  that  you  will  certainly 
come  and  when.  I  will  gladly  cut  off  a  slice  of 
my  season's  time  however  thick  —  the  thicker 
the  better  —  and  lay  it  aside  for  you.  I  am  in 
the  habit  of  asking  so  many  to  come,  come,  come 
[  in  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

to  the  mountain  baptisms  that  there  is  danger 
of  having  others  on  my  hands  when  you  come, 
which  must  not  be.  I  will  mark  off  one  or  two 
or  three  months  of  bare,  dutiless  time  for  our 
blessed  selves  or  the  few  good  and  loyal  ones 
that  you  may  choose.  Therefore,  at  the  ex 
pense  even  of  breaking  a  dozen  of  civilization's 
laws  and  fences,  I  want  you  to  come.  For  the 
high  Sierra  the  months  of  July,  August,  and 
September  are  best. 

As  for  your  Asiatic  sayings,  I  would  gladly 
creep  into  the  Vale  of  Cashmere  or  any  other 
grove  upon  our  blessed  star.  I  feel  my  poverty 
in  general  knowledge  and  will  travel  some  day. 
You  need  not  think  that  I  feel  Yosemite  to  be 
all  in  all,  but  more  of  this  when  you  come. 

I  am  going  to  send  you  with  this  a  few 
facts  and  thoughts  that  I  gathered  concerning 
Twenty  Hill  Hollow,  which  I  want  to  publish, 
if  you  think  you  can  mend  them  and  make 
them  into  a  lawful  article  fit  for  outsiders.  Plant 
gold  is  fading  from  California  faster  than  did 
her  placer  gold,  and  I  wanted  to  save  the 
[  112  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

memory  of  that  which  is  laid  upon  Twenty 
Hills. 

Also  I  will  send  you  some  thoughts  that  I 
happened  to  get  for  poor  persecuted,  twice- 
damned  Coyote.  If  you  think  anybody  will 
believe  them,  have  them  published.  Last  mail 
I  sent  you  some  manuscript  about  bears  and 
storms,  which  you  will  believe  if  no  one  else  will. 
An  account  of  my  preliminary  rambles  among 
the  glacier  beds  was  published  in  the  "Daily 
Tribune"  of  New  York,  Dec.  9th.  Have  you 
seen  it  ?  If  you  have,  call  old  Mr.  Stebbins's 
attention  to  it.  He  will  read  with  pleasure. 
Where  is  the  old  friend  ?  I  have  not  heard  from 
him  for  a  long  time.  Remember  me  to  the  Doc 
tor  and  the  boys  and  all  my  old  friends. 

Yours,  etc., 

JOHN  MUIR. 

New  Sentinel  Hotel, 
Yosemite  Valley,  April  23,  1872. 

Yours  of  Apr.  9th  and  isth  containing  Ned's 
canoe  and  colonization  adventure  came  to 
night.  I  feel  that  you  are  coming  and  I  will  not 
[  113] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

hear  any  words  of  preparatory  consolation  for 
the  tmsupposable  case  of  your  non-appearance. 
Come  by  way  of  Clark's  and  spend  a  whole  day 
or  two  in  the  sequoias,  thence  to  Sentinel  Dome 
and  Glacier  Point.  From  thence  swoop  to  our 
meadows  and  groves  direct  by  a  trail  now  in 
course  of  construction  which  will  be  completed 
by  the  time  the  snow  melts.  This  new  trail  will 
be  best  in  scenery  and  safety  of  five  which  enter 
the  valley.  It  leads  from  Glacier  Point  down  the 
face  of  the  mountain  by  an  easy  grade  to  a  point 
back  of  Leidig's  Hotel  and  has  over  half  a 
dozen  inspiration  points. 

I  hear  that  Mr.  Peregoy  intends  building  a 
hotel  at  Glacier  Point.  If  he  does,  you  should 
halt  there  for  the  night  after  leaving  Clark's. 
If  not,  then  stop  at  the  present  "Peregoy's," 
five  or  six  miles  south  of  the  valley  at  the  West- 
fall  Meadows  —  built  since  your  visit.  You 
might  then  easily  ride  from  Clark's  to  the  valley 
in  a  day,  but  a  day  among  the  silver  firs  and 
another  about  the  glories  of  the  valley-rim  and 
settings  is  a  "sma'  request." 
[  114] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

The  snow  is  deep  this  year,  and  the  regular 
Mariposa  Trail  leading  to  Glacier  Point,  etc., 
will  not  be  open  before  June.  The  Mariposa 
travel  of  May  and  perhaps  a  week  or  so  of 
June  will  enter  the  valley  from  Clark's  by  a 
sort  of  sneaking  trail  along  the  river  canon 
below  the  snow,  but  you  must  not  come  that 
way. 

You  may  also  enter  the  valley  via  Little  Yo- 
semite  and  Nevada  and  Vernal  Falls  by  a  trail 
constructed  last  season;  also  by  Indian  Falls 
on  the  north  side  of  the  valley  by  a  trail  now 
nearly  completed.  This  last  is  a  noble  entrance 
but  perhaps  not  equal  to  the  first.  Whatever 
way  you  come,  we  will  travel  all  those  up  and 
down,  and  bear  in  mind  that  you  must  go 
among  the  summits  in  July  or  August.  Bring 
no  friends  that  will  not  go  to  these  fountains 
beyond  or  are  uncastoffable.  Calm  thinkers 
like  your  Doctor,  who  first  led  me  with  science, 
and  Le  Conte  are  the  kinds  of  souls  fit  for  the 
formation  of  human  clouds  adapted  to  this 
mountain  sky.  Nevertheless,  I  will  rejoice  be- 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

yond  measure  though  you  come  as  a  comet 
tailed  with  a  whole  misty  town. 

Ned  is  a  brave  fellow.  God  bless  him  un 
speakably  and  feed  him  with  his  own  South 
American  self. 

I  shall  be  most  happy  to  know  your  Doggetts 
or  anything  that  you  call  dear. 

Good-night  and  love  to  all. 

I  have  not  seen  any  of  my  "  Tribune"  letters, 
though  I  have  written  five  or  six.  Send  copy  if 

you  can. 

J.  Mum. 

[1872.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
Farewell.  I  'm  glad  you  are  to  get  your  Ned 
again.   The  fever  will  soon  cool  out  from  his 
veins  in  the  breath  of  California. 

The  valley  is  full  of  sun,  but  glorious  Sierras 
are  piled  above  the  South  Dome  and  Starr 
King.  I  mean  the  bossy  cumuli  that  are  daily 
upheaved  at  this  season,  making  a  cloud  period 
yet  grander  than  the  rock-sculpturing,  Yosem- 
ite-making,  forest-planting  glacial  period, 
f  116  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yesterday  we  had  our  first  midday  shower. 
The  pines  waved  gloriously  at  its  approach,  the 
woodpeckers  beat  about  as  if  alarmed,  but  the 
hummingbird  moths  thought  the  cloud  shadows 
belonged  to  evening  and  came  down  to  eat 
among  the  mints.  All  the  fire  and  rocks  of 
Starr  King  were  bathily  dripped  before. 

[1872.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
they  will  go  on  Monoward  for  Tahoe.    I  mean 
to  set  some  stakes  in  a  dozen  glaciers  and  gather 
some  arithmetic  for  clothing  my  thoughts. 

I  hope  you  will  not  allow  old  H.  or  his  picture 
agent,  Houseworth,  to  so  gobble  and  bewool 
poor  Agassiz  that  I  will  not  see  him. 

Remember  me  always  to  the  Doctor  and  the 
boys  and  to  Mrs.  Moore,  and  I  am  ever  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

I  will  return  to  the  valley  in  about  a  week,  if 
I  don't  get  over-deep  in  a  crevass. 

Later.    Yours  of  Monday  evening  has  just 
come.   I  am  glad  your  boy  is  so  soon  to  feel 
[  117] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

mother  home  and  its  blessings.  I  hope  to  meet 
Torrey,  although  I  will  push  iceward  as  before, 
but  may  get  back  in  time.  I  will  enjoy  Agassiz, 
and  Tyndall  even  more.  I'm  sorry  for  poor 
Stoddard.  Tell  him  to  come. 

I'll  see  Mrs.  H.,  perhaps,  this  evening  and 

deliver  your  message. 
Farewell. 

New  Sentinel  Hotel, 
Yosemite  Valley,  May  31,  1872. 

Yours  announcing  the  Joaquin  and  the  Dog- 
getts  and  more  is  here.  I  care  not  when  you 
come,  so  that  you  come  calm  and  timeful.  I 
will  try  to  compel  myself  down  to  you  in  Au 
gust,  but  these  years  and  ages  among  snows 
and  rocks  have  made  me  far  more  unfit  for  the 
usages  of  civilization  than  you  appreciate.  My 
nerves'  strings  shrink  at  the  prospect,  even  at 
this  distance.  But  if  by  diving  to  that  slimy 
town  sea-bottom  I  can  touch  Huxley  and  Tyn 
dall  and  mount  again  with  you  to  calm  months 
in  the  Sierras,  I  will  draw  a  long  breath  and 
splash  into  your  fearful  muds. 
[  118  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  would  rather  have  you  in  September  and 
October  than  at  any  other  time,  but  a  few 
weeks  of  this  white  water  would  be  very  glori 
ous.  Merrill  Moores,  who  was  with  me  in 
Wisconsin  and  at  your  Madison  home,  will 
be  here  soon  to  spend  a  good  big  block  of  a 
while  with  me.  Why  can't  you  let  Allie  join 
him? 

For  the  last  week  our  valley  has  been  a  lake 
and  my  shanty  is  in  flood.  But  the  walls  about 
us  are  white  this  morning  with  snow,  which 
has  checked  the  free  life  of  our  torrents,  and 
the  meadows  will  soon  be  walkable  again.  The 
snow  fell  last  night  and  this  morning.  The  falls 
will  sing  loud  and  long  this  year,  and  the  moun 
tains  are  fat  in  thick  snow  that  the  sun  will 
find  hard  to  fry. 

Midnight. 

O  Mrs.  Carr,  that  you  could  be  here  to  min 
gle  in  this  night  moon  glory!  I  am  in  the  Upper 
Yosemite  Falls  and  can  hardly  calm  to  write, 
but,  from  my  thick  baptism  an  hour  ago,  you 
[  119] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

have  been  so  present  that  I  must  try  to  fix 
you  a  written  thought. 

In  the  afternoon  I  came  up  the  mountain 
here  with  a  blanket  and  a  piece  of  bread  to 
spend  the  night  in  prayer  among  the  spouts  of 
the  fall.  But  now  what  can  I  say  more  than 
wish  again  that  you  might  expose  your  soul  to 
the  rays  of  this  heaven? 

Silver  from  the  moon  illumines  this  glorious 
creation  which  we  term  falls  and  has  laid  a  mag 
nificent  double  prismatic  bow  at  its  base.  The 
tissue  of  the  falls  is  delicately  filmed  on  the  out 
side  like  the  substance  of  spent  clouds,  and  the 
stars  shine  dimly  through  it.  In  the  solid  shafted 
body  of  the  falls  is  a  vast  number  of  passing 
caves,  black  and  deep,  with  close  white  convolv 
ing  spray  for  sills  and  shooting  comet  shoots 
above  and  down  their  sides  like  lime  crystals  in 
a  cave,  and  every  atom  of  the  magnificent  being, 
from  the  thin  silvery  crest  that  does  not  dim 
the  stars  to  the  inner  arrowy  hardened  shafts 
that  strike  onward  like  thunderbolts  in  sound 
and  energy,  all  is  life  and  spirit,  every  bolt  and 
[  120] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

spray  feels  the  hand  of  God.  O  the  music  that 
is  blessing  me  now!  The  sun  of  last  week  has 
given  the  grandest  notes  of  all  the  yearly  an 
them  and  they  echo  in  every  fibre  of  me. 

I  said  that  I  was  going  to  stop  here  until 
morning  and  pray  a  whole  blessed  night  with 
the  falls  and  the  moon,  but  I  am  too  wet  and 
must  go  down.  An  hour  or  two  ago  I  went  out 
somehow  on  a  little  seam  that  extends  along 
the  wall  behind  the  falls.  I  suppose  I  was  in 
a  trance,  but  I  can  positively  say  that  I  was 
in  the  body  for  it  is  sorely  battered  and  wetted. 
As  I  was  gazing  past  the  thin  edge  of  the  fall 
and  away  through  beneath  the  column  to  the 
brow  of  the  rock,  some  heavy  splashes  of  water 
struck  me,  driven  hard  against  the  wall.  Sud 
denly  I  was  darkened ;  down  came  a  section  of 
the  outside  tissue  composed  of  spent  comets. 
I  crouched  low,  holding  my  breath,  and,  an 
chored  to  some  angular  flakes  of  rocks,  took 
my  baptism  with  moderately  good  faith.  When 
I  dared  to  look  up  after  the  swaying  column 
admitted  light,  I  pounced  behind  a  piece  of  ice 
[  121  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

which  was  wedged  tight  in  the  wall,  and  I  no 
longer  feared  being  washed  off,  and  steady 
moonbeams  slanting  past  the  arching  meteors 
gave  me  confidence  to  escape  to  this  snug  place 
where  McChesney  and  I  slept  one  night,  where 
I  had  a  fire  to  dry  my  socks.  This  rock  shelf 
extending  behind  the  falls  is  about  five  hundred 
feet  above  the  base  of  the  fall  on  the  perpendic 
ular  rock-face. 

How  little  do  we  know  of  ourselves,  of  our 
profoundest  attractions  and  repulsions,  of  our 
spiritual  affinities!  How  interesting  does  man 
become,  considered  in  his  relations  to  the  spirit 
of  this  rock  and  water!  How  significant  does 
every  atom  of  our  world  become  amid  the  influ 
ences  of  those  beings  unseen,  spiritual,  angelic 
mountaineers  that  so  throng  these  pure  man 
sions  of  crystal  foam  and  purple  granite! 

I  cannot  refrain  from  speaking  to  this  little 
bush  at  my  side  and  to  the  spray-drops  that 
come  to  my  paper  and  to  the  individual  sands  of 
the  slope  I  am  sitting  upon.  Ruskin  says  that 
the  idea  of  foulness  is  essentially  connected  with 

[    122   ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

what  he  calls  dead  unorganized  matter.  How 
cordially  I  disbelieve  him  to-night!  and  were 
he  to  dwell  awhile  among  the  powers  of  these 
mountains,  he  would  forget  all  dictionary  dif 
ferences  between  the  clean  and  the  unclean  and 
he  would  lose  all  memory  and  meaning  of  the 
diabolical,  sin-begotten  term,  foulness. 

Well,  I  must  go  down.  I  am  disregarding  all 
of  the  Doctor's  physiology  in  sitting  here  in 
this  universal  moisture. 

Farewell  to  you  and  to  all  the  beings  about 
us !  I  shall  have  a  glorious  walk  down  the  moun 
tains  in  this  thin  white  light,  over  the  open 
brows  grayed  with  Selaginella  and  through  the 
thick  black  shadow  caves  in  the  live  oaks  all 
stuck  full  of  snowy  lances  of  moonlight. 

New  Sentinel  Hotel,  Yosemite  Valley, 
July  6th,  1872. 

Yours  of  Tuesday  evening  telling  of  our  Dog- 

getts  and  Ned  and  Merrill  Moores  has  come, 

and  so  has  the  lamp  and  book.  I  have  not  yet 

tried  the  lamp,  but  it  is  splendid  in  shape  and 

[  123] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

shines  grand  as  gold.  The  Lyell  is  just  what 
I  wanted. 

I  think  that  your  measure  of  the  Doggetts  is 
exactly  right  —  as  good  as  civilized  people  can 
be.  They  have  grown  to  the  top  of  town  culture 
and  have  sent  out  some  shoots  half  gropingly 
into  the  spirit  sky. 

I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  Ned  is  growing 
strong.  Perhaps  we  may  see  South  America 
together  yet.  I  hope  to  see  you  come  to  your 
own  of  mountain  fountains  soon.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Hutchings  may  go  with  us.  You  live  so  fully 
in  my  own  life  that  I  cannot  realize  that  I  have 
not  yet  seen  you  here;  a  year  or  two  of  waiting 
seems  nothing. 

Possibly  I  may  be  down  on  your  coast  this 
fall  or  next,  for  I  want  to  see  what  relations  the 
coast  and  coast  mountains  have  to  the  Sierras. 
Also  I  want  to  go  north  and  south  along  this 
range  and  then  among  the  basins  and  ranges 
eastward.  My  subject  is  expanding  at  a  most 
unfollowable  pace.  I  could  write  something  with 
data  already  harvested,  but  I  am  not  satisfied. 
[  124] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  have  just  returned  from  Hetch  Hetchy  with 
Mrs.  Moore.  Of  course  we  had  a  glory  and  a 
fun  —  the  two  articles  in  about  parallel  col 
umns  of  equal  size.  Meadows  grassed  and  lilies 
head-high,  spangled  river-reaches  and  current- 
less  pools,  cascades  countless  and  unpaintable 
in  form  and  whiteness,  groves  that  heaven  all 
the  valley.  You  were  with  us  in  all  our  joy  and 
you  will  come  again. 

I  am  a  little  weary  and  half  inclined  to  tru- 
antism  from  mobs  however  blessed,  in  some 
unfindable  grove.  I  start  in  a  few  minutes  for 
Cloud's  Rest  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moore.  I  like 
Mrs.  Moore  and  Mr.  first-rate. 

My  love  to  the  Doctor  and  all  the  boys.  I 
hope  for  Merrill  daily. 

I  am 

Ever  your  friend, 

J.  Mum. 

New  Sentinel  Hotel,  Yosemite, 
July  I4th,  1872. 

Yours  announcing  Dr.  Gray  is  received.  I 
have  great  longing  for  Gray,  whom  I  feel  to 

[  125  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

be  a  great,  progressive,  unlimited  man  like  Dar 
win  and  Huxley  and  Tyndall.  I  will  be  most 
glad  to  meet  him.  You  are  unweariable  in  your 
kindness  to  me,  and  you  helm  my  fate  more 
than  all  the  world  beside. 

I  am  approaching  a  kind  of  fruiting-time  in 
this  mountain  work  and  I  want  very  much  to 
see  you.  All  say  write,  but  I  don't  know  how  or 
what,  and  besides  I  want  to  see  North  and  South 
and  the  midland  basins  and  the  seacoast  and 
all  the  lake-basins  and  the  canons,  also  the  alps 
of  every  country  and  the  continental  glaciers 
of  Greenland,  before  I  write  the  book  we  have 
been  speaking  of;  and  all  this  will  require  a  doz 
en  years  or  twenty,  and  money.  The  question 
is  what  will  I  write  now,  etc.  I  have  learned  the 
alphabet  of  ice  and  mountain  structure  here, 
and  I  think  I  can  read  fast  in  other  countries. 
I  would  let  others  write  what  I  have  read  here, 
but  that  they  make  so  damnable  a  hash  of  it 
and  ruin  so  glorious  a  unit. 

I  miss  the  Moores  because  they  were  so  cor 
dial  and  kind  to  me.  Mrs.  Moore  believes  in  ice 
[  126] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  can  preach  it  too.  I  wish  you  could  bring 
Whitney  and  her  together  and  tell  me  the 
fight.  Mrs.  M.  made  the  most  sensible  visit  to 
our  mountains  of  all  the  comers  I  have  known. 
Mr.  Moore  is  a  man  who  thinks,  and  he  took 
to  this  mountain  structure  like  a  pointer  to 
partridges. 

I  am  glad  your  Ned  is  growing  strong;  then 
we  will  yet  meet  this  summer  in  Yosemite 
places.  Talk  to  Mrs.  Moore  about  Hetch 
Hetchy,  etc.  She  knows  it  all  from  Hog  Ranch 
to  highest  sea-wave  cascades,  and  higher,  yet 
higher. 

I  ought  not  to  fun  away  letter  space  in  speak 
ing  to  you.  I  am  weary  and  impractical  and  fit 
for  nothing  serious  until  I  am  tuned  and  toned 
by  a  few  weeks  of  calm. 

Farewell.    I  will  see  you  and  we  will  plan 

work  and  ease  and  days  of  holy  mountain  rest. 

Remember  me  to  Ned  and  all  the  boys  and  to 

the  Doctor,  who  ought  to  come  hither  with  you. 

Ever  your  friend, 

JOHN  MUIR. 
[  127  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite  Valley, 

July  2yth,  1872. 

I  want  to  see  you.  I  want  to  speak  about  my 
studies,  which  are  growing  broader  and  broader 
and  spreading  away  to  all  countries  without 
any  clear  horizon  anywhere. 

I  will  go  over  all  this  Yosemite  region  this 
fall  and  write  it  up  in  some  form  or  other.  Will 
you  be  here  to  accompany  me  in  my  easier 
excursions  ? 

I  have  a  good  horse  for  you  and  will  get  a  tub 
and  plenty  of  meal  and  tea,  and  you  will  keep 
house  in  very  old  style  and  you  can  bring  whom 
you  please. 

I  Ve  had  a  very  noble  time  with  Gray,  who, 
though  brooded  and  breaded  by  Hutchings, 
gave  most  of  his  time  to  me.  I  was  sorry  that 
his  time  was  so  meanly  measured  and  bounded. 
He  is  a  most  cordial  lover  of  purity  and  truth, 
but  the  angular  factiness  of  his  pursuits  has 
kept  him  at  too  cold  a  distance  from  the  spirit 
world. 

I  know  that  Mrs.  Moore  has  given  you  ice  in 
[  128] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

abundance,  though  even  Yosemite  glaciers 
might  melt  in  the  warmth  of  her  laughter  and 
sunshine.  She  handles  glacier  periods  like  an 
Agassiz  and  has  discovered  a  Hetch  Hetchy 
period  that  is  her  own.  Don't  you  believe  all 
she  tells  you  about  the  walk  and  the  dark  and 
the  dust  of  Indian  Canon. 

I  want  to  get  Doggett's  address. 

I  will  begin  my  long  mountain  excursion 
soon,  for  the  snow  is  mostly  gone  from  the  high 
meadows. 

I  have  been  guiding  a  few  parties  and  will 
take  a  few  more  if  they  are  of  the  right  kind, 
but  I  want  my  mind  kept  free  and  sensitive  to 
all  influences  excepting  human  business. 

I  need  a  talk  with  you  more  than  ever  before. 
Mrs.  Hutchings  is  always  kind  to  me,  and  the 
clearness  of  her  views  on  all  spiritual  things  is 
very  extraordinary.  She  appreciates  your  friend 
ship  very  keenly,  and  I  am  glad  to  think  you 
will  soon  know  each  other  better.  Her  little 
Casie  (Gertrude)  is  as  pure  a  piece  of  sunbeam 
as  ever  was  condensed  to  human  form. 
[  129  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Hoping  that  Ned  will  be  able  to  come  here 
to  the  mountain  waters  for  perfect  healing  and 
that  you  will  also  find  leisure  for  the  satisfying 
of  your  thirst  for  beauty,  I  remain  ever 
Your  friend, 

JOHN  Mum. 
My  love  to  Doctor  and  all  the  boys. 

Yosemite  Valley, 

August  5th,  1872. 

Your  letter  telling  me  to  catch  my  best  gla 
cier  birds  and  come  to  you  and  the  coast  moun 
tains  only  makes  me  the  more  anxious  to  see 
you,  and  if  you  cannot  come  up,  I  will  have  to 
come  down,  if  only  for  a  talk.  My  birds  are 
flying  everywhere,  —  into  all  mountains  and 
plains,  of  all  climes  and  times,  —  and  some  are 
ducks  in  the  sea,  and  I  scarce  know  what  to  do 
about  it.  I  must  see  the  coast  ranges  and  the 
coast,  but  I  was  thinking  that  a  month  or  so 
might  answer  for  the  present,  and  then,  instead 
of  spending  the  winter  in  town,  I  would  hide  in 
Yosemite  and  write;  or  I  thought  I  would  pack 
[  130] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

up  some  meal  and  dried  plums  to  some  deep 
wind-sheltered  canon  back  among  the  glaciers 
of  the  summits,  and  write  there,  and  be  ready 
to  catch  any  whisper  of  ice  and  snow  in  these 
highest  storms. 

You  anticipate  all  the  bends  and  falls  and 
rapids  and  cascades  of  my  mountain  life,  and 
I  know  that  you  say  truly  about  my  compan 
ions  being  those  who  live  with  me  in  the  same 
sky,  whether  in  reach  of  hand  or  only  of  spir 
itual  contact,  which  is  the  most  real  contact 
of  all. 

I  am  learning  to  live  close  to  the  lives  of  my 
friends  without  ever  seeing  them.  No  miles  of 
any  measurement  can  separate  your  soul  from 
mine. 

[Part  of  letter  missing.] 
the  valley  was  vouchsafed  a  single  drop. 

After  the  splendid  blessing,  the  afternoon 
was  veiled  in  calm  clouds,  and  one  of  intensely 
beautiful  pattern  and  gorgeously  irised  was  sta 
tioned  over  Eagle  Rock  at  the  sunset. 

Farewell.  I  '11  see  you  with  my  common  eyes, 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

and  touch  you  with  these  very  writing  fingers 
ere  long. 

Remember  me  cordially  to  Mrs.  Moore  and 
Mr.  and  all  your  family,  and  I  am  as  ever 
Your  friend, 

JOHN  MUIR. 


Yosemite  Valley, 

September  13,  1872. 

Yours  of  Aug.  23rd  is  received.  Le  Conte 
writes  me  that  Agassiz  will  not  come  to  the 
valley. 

I  just  got  down  last  evening  from  a  fifteen- 
day  ramble  in  the  basins  of  Illilouette  and  Po- 
hono,  and  start  again  in  an  hour  for  the  summit 
glaciers  to  see  some  canons  and  to  examine  the 
stakes  I  planted  in  the  ice  a  month  ago. 

I  would  like  to  come  down  to  see  Agassiz, 
but  now  is  my  harvest  of  rocks  and  I  cannot 
spare  the  time. 

I  shall  work  in  the  outer  mountains  inces 
santly  until  the  coming  of  the  snow  [rest  of 
letter  missing]. 

[  132] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite  Valley, 

October  8th,  1872. 

Here  we  are  again,  and  here  is  your  letter  of 
Sept.  24th.  I  got  down  last  evening,  and  boo! 
was  I  not  weary  after  pushing  through  the  rough 
upper  half  of  the  great  Tuolumne  Canon?  I 
have  climbed  more  than  twenty-four  thousand 
feet  in  these  ten  days,  three  times  to  the  top  of 
the  glacieret  of  Mt.  Hoffman,  and  once  to  Mts. 
Lyell  and  McClure.  I  have  bagged  a  quantity 
of  Tuolumne  rocks  sufficient  to  build  a  dozen 
Yosemites ;  stripes  of  cascades  longer  than  ever, 
lacy  or  smooth  and  white  as  pressed  snow;  a 
glacier  basin  with  ten  glassy  lakes  set  all  near 
together  like  eggs  in  a  nest;  then  El  Capitan 
and  a  couple  of  Tissiacks,  canons  glorious  with 
yellows  and  reds  of  mountain  maple  and  aspen 
and  honeysuckle  and  ash  and  new  indescribable 
music  immeasurable  from  strange  waters  and 
winds,  and  glaciers,  too,  flowing  and  grinding, 
alive  as  any  on  earth.  Shall  I  pull  you  out  some  ? 
Here  is  a  clean,  white-skinned  glacier  from  the 
back  of  McClure  with  glassy  emerald  flesh  and 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

singing  crystal  blood  all  bright  and  pure  as  a 
sky,  yet  handling  mud  and  stone  like  a  navvy, 
building  moraines  like  a  plodding  Irishman. 
Here  is  a  cascade  two  hundred  feet  wide,  half 
a  mile  long,  glancing  this  way  and  that,  filled 
with  bounce  and  dance  and  joyous  hurrah,  yet 
earnest  as  tempest,  and  singing  like  angels 
loose  on  a  frolic  from  heaven ;  and  here  are  more 
cascades  and  more,  broad  and  flat  like  clouds 
and  fringed  like  flowing  hair,  with  occasional 
falls  erect  as  pines,  and  lakes  like  glowing  eyes; 
and  here  are  visions  and  dreams,  and  a  splendid 
set  of  ghosts,  too  many  for  ink  and  narrow 
paper. 

I  have  not  heard  anything  concerning  Le 
Conte's  glacier  lecture,  but  he  seems  to  have 
drawn  all  he  knows  of  Sierra  glaciers  and  new 
theories  concerning  them  so  directly  from  here 
that  I  cannot  think  that  he  will  claim  discovery, 
etc.  If  he  does,  I  will  not  be  made  poorer. 

Professor  Kneeland,  Secretary  Boston  Insti 
tute  of  Technology,  gathered  some  letters  I 
sent  to  Runkle  and  that  "Tribune"  letter,  and 
[  134] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

hashed  them  into  a  compost  called  a  paper  for 
the  Boston  Historical  Society,  and  gave  me 
credit  for  all  of  the  smaller  sayings  and  doings 
and  stole  the  broadest  truth  to  himself.  I  have 
the  proof-sheets  of  "The  Paper"  and  will  show 
them  to  you  some  time.  But  all  of  such  mean 
ness  can  work  no  permanent  evil  to  any  one 
except  the  dealer. 

As  for  the  living  "glaciers  of  the  Sierras," 
here  is  what  I  have  learned  concerning  them. 
You  will  have  the  first  chance  to  steal,  for  I 
have  just  concluded  my  experiments  on  them 
for  the  season  and  have  not  yet  cast  them  at 
any  of  the  great  professors,  or  presidents. 

One  of  the  yellow  days  of  last  October,  when 
I  was  among  the  mountains  of  the  "Merced 
Group,"  following  the  footprints  of  the  ancient 
glaciers  that  once  flowed  grandly  from  their 
ample  fountains,  reading  what  I  could  of  their 
history  as  written  in  moraines  and  canons  and 
lakes  and  carved  rocks,  I  came  upon  a  small 
stream  that  was  carrying  mud  I  had  not  before 
seen.  In  a  calm  place  where  the  stream  widened 
[  135] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  collected  some  of  this  mud  and  observed  that 
it  was  entirely  mineral  in  composition  and  fine 
as  flour,  like  the  mud  from  a  fine-grit  grind 
stone.  Before  I  had  time  to  reason  I  said,  Gla 
cier  mud,  mountain  meal. 

Then  I  observed  that  this  muddy  stream  is 
sued  from  a  bank  of  fresh  quarried  stones  and 
dirt  that  was  sixty  or  seventy  feet  in  height. 
This  I  at  once  took  to  be  a  moraine.  In  climb 
ing  to  the  top  of  it  I  was  struck  with  the  steep 
ness  of  its  slope  and  with  its  raw,  unsettled, 
plantless,  newborn  appearance.  The  slightest 
touch  started  blocks  of  red  and  black  slate,  fol 
lowed  by  a  rattling  train  of  smaller  stones  and 
sand  and  a  cloud  of  the  dry  dust  of  mud,  the 
whole  moraine  being  as  free  from  lichens  and 
weather  stains  as  if  dug  from  the  mountain  that 
very  day. 

When  I  had  scrambled  to  the  top  of  the  mo 
raine,  I  saw  what  seemed  a  huge  snow-bank 
four  or  five  hundred  yards  in  length  by  half  a 
mile  in  width.  Imbedded  in  its  stained  and  fur 
rowed  surface  were  stones  and  dirt  like  that  of 
[  136] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

which  the  moraine  was  built.  Dirt-stained  lines 
curved  across  the  snow-bank  from  side  to  side, 
and  when  I  observed  that  these  curved  lines 
coincided  with  the  curved  moraine  and  that  the 
stones  and  dirt  were  most  abundant  near  the  bot 
tom  of  the  bank,  I  shouted,  "A  living  glacier." 
These  bent  dirt  lines  show  that  the  ice  is  flowing 
in  its  different  parts  with  unequal  velocity,  and 
these  embedded  stones  are  journeying  down  to 
be  built  into  the  moraine,  and  they  gradually 
become  more  abundant  as  they  approach  the 
moraine  because  there  the  motion  is  slower. 

On  traversing  my  new-found  glacier,  I  came 
to  a  crevass,  down  a  wide  and  jagged  portion  of 
which  I  succeeded  in  making  my  way,  and  dis 
covered  that  my  so-called  snow-bank  was  clear 
green  ice,  and,  comparing  the  form  of  the  basin 
which  it  occupied  with  similar  adjacent  basins 
that  were  empty,  I  was  led  to  the  opinion  that 
this  glacier  was  several  hundred  feet  in  depth. 

Then  I  went  to  the  "snow-banks"  of  Mts. 
Lyell  and  McClure  and  believed  that  they  also 
were  true  glaciers  and  that  a  dozen  other  snow- 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

banks  seen  from  the  summit  of  Mt.  Lyell  crouch 
ing  in  shadow  were  glaciers,  living  as  any  in  the 
world  and  busily  engaged  in  completing  that 
vast  work  of  mountain-making,  accomplished 
by  their  giant  relatives  now  dead,  which,  united 
and  continuous,  covered  all  the  range  from  sum 
mit  to  sea  like  a  sky. 

I  'm  going  to  take  your  painter  boys  with  me 
into  one  of  my  best  sanctums  on  your  recom 
mendation  for  holiness. 

Emerson  has  sent  me  a  profound  little  book 
styled  "The  Growth  of  the  Mind,"  by  Reed. 
Do  you  know  it  ?  It  is  full  of  the  fountain  truth. 

I  'm  glad  your  boys  are  safely  back.  Perhaps 
Ned  and  I  may  try  that  Andes  field  together. 

I  would  write  to  Mrs.  Moore  but  will  wait 
until  she  is  better.  Tell  her  the  cascades  and 
mountains  of  upper  Hetch  Hetchy  [  ]. 

I  hope  I  may  see  you  a  few  days  soon.  I  had 
a  pretty  letter  from  old  Dr.  Torrey,  and  from 
Gray  I  have  heard  three  or  four  times.  I  am 

ever 

Cordially. 

[  138  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite,  October  I4th,  [1872.] 

I  cannot  hear  from  you.  There  are  some 
souls,  perhaps,  that  are  never  tired,  that  ever 
go  steadily  glad,  always  tuneful  and  songful  like 
mountain  water.  Not  so,  weary,  hungry  me. 
This  second  time  I  come  from  the  rocks  for 
fresh  supplies  of  the  two  breads,  but  I  find  but 
one.  I  cannot  hear  from  you.  My  last  weeks 
were  spent  among  the  canons  of  the  Hoffman 
range  and  the  Cathedral  Peak  group  east  of 
Lake  Tenaya.  All  gloriously  rich  in  the  written 
truths  which  I  am  seeking.  I  will  now  go  to  the 
wide,  ragged  tributaries  of  Illilouette  and  to 
Pohono,  after  which  I  will  mope  about  among 
the  rim  canons  and  rock  forms  of  the  valley  as 
the  weather  permits. 

Perhaps  I  have  not  yet  answered  all  of  your 
last  long  pages.  Here  is  a  quotation  from  Tyn- 
dall  concerning  the  nature  and  origin  of  his 
intense  mountain  enjoyments.  He  reaches  far 
and  near  for  a  theory  of  his  delight  in  the  moun 
tains,  going  among  the  accidents  of  his  own 
boyhood  and  those  of  his  remotest  fathers,  but 
[  139] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

surely  this  must  be  all  wrong,  and,  instead  of 
groping  away  backwards  among  the  various 
grades  of  grandfathers,  he  should  explore  the 
most  primary  properties  of  man.  Perhaps  we 
owe  "the  pleasurable  emotions  which  fine 
landscape  makes  in  us"  to  a  cause  as  radical  as 
that  which  makes  a  magnet  pulse  to  the  two 
poles.  I  think  that  one  of  the  properties  of  that 
compound  which  we  call  man  is  that  when  ex 
posed  to  the  rays  of  mountain  beauty  it  glows 
with  joy.  I  don't  know  who  of  all  my  ancestry 
are  to  blame,  but  my  attractions  and  repulsions 
are  badly  balanced  to-night  and  I  will  not  try 
to  say  any  more,  excepting  farewell  and  love  to 
you  all. 

JOHN  MUIR. 

[1872  or  1873.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
although  I  was  myself  fully  satisfied  concern 
ing  the  real  nature  of  these  ice-masses.  I  found 
that  my  friends  regarded  my  deductions  and 
statements  with  distrust,  therefore  I  determined 
[  140  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

to  collect  proofs  of  the  common  measured  arith 
metical  kind. 

On  the  2  ist  of  Aug.  last  I  planted  five  stakes 
in  the  glacier  of  Mt.  McClure,  which  is  situated 
east  of  Yosemite  Valley,  near  the  summit  of 
the  range.  Four  of  these  stakes  were  extended 
across  the  middle  of  the  glacier.  The  first 
stake  was  planted  about  25  yds.  from  the  east 
bank  of  the  glacier.  The  second  94  yards, 
the  third  152,  and  the  fourth  223  yards.  The 
positions  of  these  stakes  were  determined  by 
sighting  across  from  bank  to  bank  past  a 
plumbline  made  of  a  stone  and  a  black  horse 
hair. 

On  observing  my  stakes  on  the  6th  of  Oct., 
or  in  46  days  after  being  planted,  I  found  that 
stake  No.  i  had  been  carried  down  stream  n 
inches;  No.  2,  18  inches;  No.  3,  34;  No.  4,  47 
inches.  As  stake  No.  4  was  near  the  middle  of 
the  glacier,  perhaps  it  was  not  far  from  the 
point  of  maximum  velocity,  47  inches  in  46 
days,  or  i  inch  per  day.  Stake  No.  5  was 
planted  about  midway  between  the  head  of 
[  141  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  glacier  and  stake  No.  [  ].  Its  motion  I 
found  to  be  in  46  days  40  inches. 

Thus  these  ice-masses  are  seen  to  possess  the 
true  glacial  motion.  Their  surfaces  are  striped 
with  bent  dirt  bands.  Their  surfaces  are  bulged 
and  undulated  by  inequalities  in  the  bottom  of 
their  basins,  causing  an  upward  and  downward 
swedging  corresponding  to  the  horizontal  swedg- 
ing  as  indicated  by  the  curved  dirt  bands. 

The  McClure  Glacier  is  about  half  a  mile  in 
length  and  about  the  same  in  width  at  the 
broadest  place.  It  is  crevassed  on  the  south 
east  corner.  The  crevass  runs  about  southwest 
and  northeast  and  is  several  hundred  yards  in 
length.  Its  width  is  nowhere  more  than  one 
foot. 

The  Mt.  Lyell  Glacier,  separated  from  that 
of  McClure  by  a  narrow  crest,  is  about  a  mile 
in  width  by  a  mile  in  length. 

I  have  planted  stakes  in  the  glacier  of  Red 
Mountains  also  but  have  not  yet  observed 
them. 

[  142] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

[No  date.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
In  going  up  any  of  the  principal  Yosemite 
streams,  lakes  in  all  stages  of  decay  are  found 
in  great  abundance,  regularly  becoming  younger 
until  we  reach  the  almost  countless  gems  of  the 
summits  with  scarce  an  inch  of  carex  upon 
their  shallow,  sandy  borders  and  with  their  bot 
toms  still  bright  with  the  polish  of  ice.  Upon 
the  Nevada  and  its  branches  there  are  not 
fewer  than  a  hundred  of  these  glacial  lakes  from 
a  mile  to  a  hundred  yards  in  diameter  with 
countless  glistening  pondlets  not  much  larger 
than  moons. 

All  of  the  grand  fir  forests  about  the  valley 
are  planted  upon  moraines,  and  from  any  of 
the  mountain-tops  the  shape  and  extent  of  the 
neighboring  moraines  may  always  be  surely 
determined  by  the  firs  growing  upon  them. 
Some  pines  will  grow  upon  shallow  sand  and 
crumbling  granite,  but  those  luxuriant  forests 
of  the  silver  firs  are  always  upon  a  generous  bed 
of  glacial  drift.  I  discovered  a  moraine  with 
[  1431 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

smooth  pebbles  upon  a  shoulder  of  the  South 
Dome,  and  upon  every  part  of  the  Yosemite 
upper  and  lower  walls. 

I  am  surprised  to  find  that  water  has  had  so 
little  to  do  with  mountain  structure  here.  Whit 
ney  says  that  there  is  no  proof  that  glaciers 
ever  flowed  in  this  valley,  yet  its  walls  have 
not  been  eroded  to  the  depth  of  an  inch  since 
the  ice  left  it,  and  glacial  action  is  glaringly 
apparent  many  miles  below  the  valley. 

The  bottom  portion  of  the  foregoing  section, 
with  perpendicular  sides,  is  here  about  two 
feet  in  depth  and  was  cut  by  the  water.  The 
Nevada  here  never  was  more  than  four  or  five 
feet  deep,  and  all  of  the  bank  records  of  all  the 
upper  streams  say  the  same  thing  of  the  absence 
of  great  floods. 

The  entire  region  above  Yosemite  and  as  far 
down  as  the  bottoms  of  Yosemite  has  scarcely 
been  touched  by  any  other  inundation  than 
that  of  ice.  Perhaps  all  of  the  past  glacial  in 
undation  of  every  kind  would  not  average  an 
inch  in  depth  for  the  whole  region. 
[  144  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite  and  Hetch  Hetchy  are  lake-basins 
filled  with  sand  and  the  matter  of  moraines 
washed  from  the  upper  canons.  The  Yosemite 
ice,  in  escaping  from  the  Yosemite  basin,  was 
compelled  to  flow  upward  a  considerable  height 
on  both  sides  of  the  bottom  walls  of  the  valley. 
The  canon  below  the  valley  is  very  crooked 
and  very  narrow,  and  the  Yosemite  glacier 
flowed  across  all  of  its  crooks  and  high  above 
its  walls  without  paying  any  compliance  to  it, 
thus:  [drawing  here].  The  light  lines  show  the 
direction  of  the  ice-current. 


Yosemite  Valley, 

March  30,  1873. 

Your  two  last  are  received.  The  package  of 
letters  was  picked  up  by  a  man  in  the  valley. 
There  was  none  for  thee.  I  have  Hetch  Hetchy 
about  ready.  I  did  not  intend  that  Tenaya  ram 
ble  for  publication,  but  you  know  what  is  better. 

I  mean  to  write  and  send  all  kinds  of  game  to 
you  with  hides  and  feathers  on,  for  if  I  wait 
until  all  become  one,  it  may  be  too  long. 
[  145] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

As  for  Le  Conte's  Glaciers,  they  will  not  hurt 
mine,  but  hereafter  I  will  say  my  thoughts  to 
the  public  in  any  kind  of  words  I  chance  to  com 
mand,  for  I  am  sure  that  they  will  be  better 
expressed  in  this  way  than  in  any  second-hand 
hash,  however  able.  Oftentimes  when  I  am 
free  in  the  wilds  I  discover  some  rare  beauty 
in  lake  or  cataract  or  mountain  form  and  in 
stantly  seek  to  sketch  it  with  my  pencil,  but 
the  drawing  is  always  enormously  unlike  the 
reality.  So  also  in  word  sketches  of  the  same 
beauties  that  are  so  living,  so  loving,  so  filled 
with  warm  God,  there  is  the  same  infinite 
shortcoming.  The  few  hard  words  make  but 
a  skeleton,  fleshless,  heartless,  and  when  you 
read,  the  dead,  bony  words  rattle  in  one's 
teeth.  Yet  I  will  not  the  less  endeavor  to  do  my 
poor  best,  believing  that  even  these  dead  bone- 
heaps  called  articles  will  occasionally  contain 
hints  to  some  living  souls  who  know  how  to 
find  them. 

I  have  not  received  Dr.  Stebbins'  letter.  Give 
him  and  all  my  friends  love  from  me.  I  sent 
[  146  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Harry  Edwards  the  butterflies  I  had  lost.  Did 
he  get  them?  Farewell,  dear,  dear  spiritual 
mother!  Heaven  repay  your  everlasting  love. 

JOHN  MUIR. 

April  1st,  1873. 

Yours  containing  Dr.  Stebbins'  was  received 
to-day.  Some  of  our  letters  come  in  by  Mari- 
posa,  some  by  Coulterville,  and  some  by  Oak 
Flat,  causing  large  delays. 

I  expect  to  be  able  to  send  this  out  next 
Sunday,  and  with  it  Hetch  Hetchy,  which  is 
about  ready  and  from  this  time  you  will  receive 
about  one  article  a  month. 

This  letter  of  yours  is  a  very  delightful  one. 
I  shall  look  eagerly  for  the  rural  homes. 

When  I  know  Dr.  Stebbins'  summer  address 
I  will  write  to  him.  He  is  a  dear  young  soul, 
though  an  old  man. 

I  am  "not  to  write"  therefore. 

Farewell  with  love. 

I  will  some  time  send  you  "Big  Tuolumne 
Canon,"  Ascent  of  Mt.  Ritter,  Formation  of 
[  i47  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite  Valley,  Yosemite  Lake,  Other  Yo- 
semite  Valleys  (one,  two,  three,  four,  or  more), 
The  Lake  District,  Transformation  of  Lakes  to 
Meadows  Wet,  to  Meadows  Dry,  to  Sandy 
Flats  Treeless,  or  to  Sandy  Flats  Forested,  The 
Glacial  Period,  Formation  of  Simple  Canons, 
of  Compound  Canons,  Description  of  each 
Glacier  of  Region,  Origin  of  Sierra  Forest,  Dis 
tribution  of  Sierra  Forests;  a  description  of  each 
of  the  Yosemite  falls  and  of  the  basins  from 
whence  derived ;  Yosemite  Shadows,  as  related 
to  groves,  meadows,  and  bends  of  the  river; 
Avalanches,  Earthquakes,  Birds,  Bear,  etc., 
and  "mony  mair." 

Yosemite  Valley, 

April  1 3th,  1873. 

Indian  Tom  goes  out  of  the  valley  to-morrow. 
With  this  I  send  you  "Hetch  Hetchy." 

Last  year  I  wrote  a  description  of  Hetchy 
and  sent  it  to  Prof.  Runkle.  Not  having  heard 
of  it  since,  I  thought  it  lost  in  some  waste- 
basket,  but  to-day  I  received  a  Boston  letter 
[  148  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

stating  that  a  Hetch  from  my  pen  appeared  in 
the  "Boston  Transcript  "of  about  March  I2th, 
1873,  which  may  possibly  be  the  article  in  ques 
tion.  If  so,  this  present  H.  H.  will  be  found  to 
contain  a  page  or  two  of  the  same,  but  this  is 
about  three  times  as  large  and  all  rewritten, 
etc.  That  Tuolumne  song  of  five  cantos  "Na 
ture  loves  the  Number  Five"  may  perhaps  be 
better  out.  If  you  think  it  unfit  for  the  public, 
keep  it  to  thyself.  I  never  can  keep  my  pen 
perfectly  sober  when  it  gets  into  the  bounce  and 
hurrah  of  cascades,  but  it  never  has  broken  into 
rhyme  before. 

Love  to  all  and  "Fare  ye  well,  my  ain  Jean." 
The  kerchiefs  have  come  from  Bentons  and 
a  package  of  books  from  Doggetts. 


Yosemite  Valley, 

April  1 9th,  1873. 

The  bearer  of  this  is  my  friend  Mr.  Black, 
proprietor  of  Black's  Hotel,  Yosemite.  He  will 
give  you  tidings  of  all  our  valley  affairs. 

I  sent  off  a  letter  and  article  for  you  a  week 
[  H9  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ago.   I  find  this  literary  business  very  irksome, 
yet  I  will  try  to  learn  it. 

The  falls  respond  gloriously  to  the  ripe  sun 
shine  of  these  days;  so  do  the  flowers. 

I  hope  that  you  will  be  able  to  send  me  word 
when  you  will  come,  so  that  I  may  arrange  ac 
cordingly.  Mr.  Black  will  give  all  particulars 
of  trails,  times,  etc.  If  Moores  have  not  gone 
ranching,  send  Mr.  Black  over  to  their  house. 
It  will  do  her  good.  I  fondly  hope  she  is  growing 
better. 

Love  to  all. 

JOHN  Mum. 

Yosemite  Valley, 

May  1 5th,  1873. 

The  robins  have  eaten  too  much  breakfast 
this  morning,  and  there  is  a  grossness  in  their 
throats  that  will  require  a  good  deal  of  sunshine 
for  its  cure.  The  leaves  of  many  of  the  plants 
are  badly  disarranged,  showing  that  they  have 
had  a  poor  night's  sleep.  The  reason  of  all  this 
trouble  is  a  snowstorm  that  overloaded  the 
[  150] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

flowers  and  benumbed  the  butterflies,  upon 
which  the  birds  have  breakfasted  too  heartily. 

The  grand  Upper  Yosemite  Fall  is  at  this 
moment  (7  A.M.)  coming  with  all  its  glorious 
array  of  fleecy  comets  out  of  a  cloud  that  is  laid 
along  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  going  into  a  cloud 
that  is  drawn  along  the  face  of  the  wall  about 
halfway  up.  These  clouds  are  shot  through  and 
through  with  sunshine,  forming,  with  the  snowy 
waters  and  fresh-washed  walls,  one  of  the  most 
openly  glorious  scenes  I  ever  beheld.  A  lady  on 
Black's  piazza  is  quietly  looking  at  it,  sitting 
with  arms  folded  in  her  chair.  A  gentleman  is 
pointing  at  it  with  his  cane,  while  another  gen 
tleman  is  speaking  loudly  and  businessly  about 
his  "baggage."  "Eyes  have  they  but  they  see 
not." 

Looking  up  the  valley,  the  cloud  effects  are 
yet  more  lavishly  glorious.  Tissiack  is  mantled 
with  silvery  burning  mists,  her  gray  rocks  ap 
pearing  dimly  where  thinly  veiled.  Over  the 
top  of  Washington  Column  the  clouds  are  de 
scending  in  a  continuous  stream  and  rising 
[  151  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

again  suddenly  from  the  bottom  like  spray  from 
a  waterfall.  O  dear!  I  wish  you  were  here.  I 
may  write  this  cloud  glory  forevermore  but 
never  be  able  to  picture  it  for  you. 

Doctor  and  Priest  in  Yosemite.  Emerson 
prophesies  in  similar  dialect  that  I  will  one  day 
go  to  him  and  ''better  men"  in  New  England, 
or  something  to  that  effect.  I  feel  like  objecting 
in  popular  slang  that  I  can't  see  it.  I  shall  in 
deed  go  gladly  to  the  "Atlantic  Coast,"  as 
he  prophesies,  but  only  to  see  him  and  the 
Glacier  Ghosts  of  the  north.  Runkle  wants 
to  make  a  teacher  of  me,  but  I  have  been  too 
long  wild,  too  befogged  and  befogged  to  burn 
well  in  their  patent  high-heated  educational 
furnaces. 

[A  portion  missing.] 

I  had  a  good  letter  from  Le  Conte.  He  evi 
dently  does  n't  know  what  to  think  of  the  huge 
lumps  of  ice  that  I  sent  him.  I  don't  wonder  at 
his  cautious  withholding  of  judgment.  When 
my  mountain  mother  first  told  me  the  tale,  I 
could  hardly  dare  to  believe  either,  and  kept 
[  152] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

saying  "  What  ?"  like  a  child  half  awake.  Fare 
well.  My  love  to  the  Doctor  and  the  boys.  I 
hope  the  Doctor  will  run  away  from  his  enor 
mous  bundles  of  duty  and  rest  a  summer  with 
the  mountains.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  ask  him. 
I  have  begun  to  build  my  cabin.  You  will  have 
a  home  in  Yosemite. 

Ever  thine, 

J.  MUIR. 

[1873-] 

My  horse  and  bread,  etc.,  are  ready  for  up 
ward.  I  returned  three  days  ago  from  Mts. 
Lyell,  McClure,  and  Hoffman.  I  spent  three 
days  on  a  glacier  up  there,  planting  stakes,  etc. 
This  time  I  go  to  the  Merced  group,  one  of 
whose  mountains  shelters  a  glacier.  I  will  go 
over  all  the  lakes  and  moraines,  etc.,  there. 
Will  be  gone  a  week  or  two  or  so. 

Hutchings  wants  to  go  with  me  to  "help  me," 
but  I  will,  etc.,  etc. 

Ink  cannot  tell  the  glow  that  lights  me  at  this 
moment  in  turning  to  the  mountains.  I  feel 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

strong  to  leap  Yosemite  walls  at  a  bound. 
Hotels  and  human  impurity  will  be  far  below. 
I  will  fuse  in  spirit  skies. 

Farewell,  or  come  meet  in  ghost  between  Red 
Mountain  and  Black  on  the  star-sparkled  ice. 

Love  to  all  thine  and  to  Moores  and  Stod- 
dard. 

Yosemite  Valley, 

June  yth,  1873. 

I  came  down  last  night  from  the  Lyell  Gla 
cier,  weary  with  walking  in  the  snow,  but  I  for 
got  my  weariness  and  the  pain  of  my  sun-blis 
tered  face  in  the  news  of  your  coming. 

I  would  like  you  to  bring  me  a  pair  or  two  of 
green  spectacles  to  save  my  eyes,  as  I  have  some 
weeks  of  hard  work  and  exposure  among  the 
glaciers  this  fall.  They  are  sore  with  my  last 
journey.  All  of  the  upper  mountains  are  yet 
deeply  snow-clad,  and  the  view  from  the  top 
of  Lyell  was  infinitely  glorious. 

Thanking  God  for  thee,  I  say  a  short  farewell. 

Kellogg  has  not  yet  appeared,  nor  any  of  the 
other  friends  you  speak  of. 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Yosemite, 
September  17,  [1873.] 

I  am  again  at  the  bottom  meadow  of  Yosem 
ite  after  a  most  intensely  interesting  bath 
among  the  outer  mountains.  I  have  been  ex 
ploring  the  upper  tributaries  of  the  Cascade 
and  Tamarac  streams.  And  in  particular  all 
of  the  basin  of  the  Yosemite  Creek.  The  pres 
ent  basin  of  every  stream  which  enters  the  val 
ley  on  the  north  side  was  formerly  filled  with 
ice,  which  also  flowed  into  the  valley,  although 
the  ancient  ice  basins  did  not  always  correspond 
with  the  present  water  basins  because  glaciers 
can  flow  up  hill.  The  whole  of  the  north  wall 
of  the  valley  was  covered  with  an  unbroken 
flow  of  ice,  with  perhaps  the  single  exception 
of  the  crest  of  Eagle  Cliff,  and  though  the  book 
of  glaciers  gradually  dims  as  we  go  lower  on 
the  range,  yet  I  fully  believe  that  future  inves 
tigation  will  show  that,  in  the  earlier  ages  of 
Sierra  Nevada  ice,  vast  glaciers  flowed  to  the 
foot  of  the  range  east  of  Yosemite  and  also 
north  and  south  at  an  elevation  of  9000  feet. 
[  155  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

The  glacier  basins  are  almost  unchanged,  and 
I  believe  that  ice  was  the  agent  by  which  all  of 
the  present  rocks  receive  their  special  forms. 
More  of  this  some  other  day.  Would  that  I 
could  have  you  here  or  in  any  wild  place  where 
I  can  think  and  speak !  Would  you  not  be  thor 
oughly  iced  ?  You  would  not  find  in  me  one  un- 
glacial  thought.  Come,  and  I  will  tell  you  how 
El  Capitan  and  Tissiack  were  fashioned.  I  will 
most  likely  live  at  Black's  Hotel  this  winter  in 
charge  of  the  premises,  and  before  next  spring 
I  will  have  an  independent  cabin  built,  with  a 
special  Carr  corner  where  you  and  the  Doctor 
can  come  and  stay  all  summer;  also  I  will  have 
a  tent  so  that  we  can  camp  and  receive  night 
blessings  when  we  choose,  and  then  I  will  have 
horses  enough  so  that  we  can  go  to  the  upper 
temples  also.  I  wish  you  could  see  Lake  Ten- 
aya.  It  is  one  of  the  most  perfectly  and  richly 
spiritual  places  in  the  mountains,  and  I  would 
like  to  preempt  there.  Somehow  I  should  feel 
like  leaving  home  in  going  to  Hetch  Hetchy. 
Besides,  there  is  room  there  for  many  other 
[  156] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

claims,  and  it  soon  will  fill  with  coarse  home 
steads,  but  as  the  winter  is  so  severe  at  Lake 
Tenaya,  very  few  will  care  to  live  there.  Hetch 
Hetchy  is  about  four  thousand  feet  above  sea, 
while  Lake  Tenaya  is  eight.  I  have  been  living 
in  these  mountains  in  so  haunting,  soaring, 
floating  a  way  that  it  seems  strange  to  cast  any 
kind  of  an  anchor.  All  is  so  equal  in  glory,  so 
ocean-like,  that  to  choose  one  place  above  an 
other  is  like  drawing  dividing  lines  in  the  sky. 
I  think  I  answered  your  last  with  respect  to  re 
maining  here  in  the  winter.  I  can  do  much  of 
this  ice  work  in  the  quiet,  and  the  whole  sub 
ject  is  purely  physical,  so  that  I  can  get  but 
little  from  books.  All  depends  upon  the  good 
ness  of  one's  eyes.  No  scientific  book  in  the 
world  can  tell  me  how  this  Yosemite  granite  is 
put  together  or  how  it  has  been  taken  down. 
Patient  observation  and  constant  brooding 
above  the  rocks,  lying  upon  them  for  years  as 
the  ice  did,  is  the  way  to  arrive  at  the  truths 
which  are  graven  so  lavishly  upon  them. 
Would  that  I  knew  what  good  prayers  I  could 
t  i57  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

say  or  good  deeds  I  could  do,  so  that  ravens 
would  bring  me  bread  and  venison  for  the  next 
two  years!  Then  would  I  get  some  tough  gray 
clothes  the  color  of  granite,  so  no  one  could  see 
or  find  me  [words  missing]  would  I  reproduce 
the  ancient  ice-rivers  and  [words  missing]  and 
dwell  with  them.  I  go  again  to  my  lessons  to 
morrow  morning.  Some  snow  fell,  and  bye-and- 
bye  I  must  tell  you  about  it. 

If  poor  good  Melancholia  Cowper  had  been 
here  yesterday  morning,  here  is  just  what  he 
would  have  sung:  — 

The  rocks  have  been  washed,  just  washed  in  a 

shower 

Which  winds  in  their  faces  conveyed. 
The  plentiful  cloudlets  bemuffled  their  brows 
Or  lay  on  their  beautiful  heads. 

But  cold  sighed  the  winds  in  the  fir  trees  above 

And  down  on  the  pine  trees  below, 

For   the  rain  that  came  laving  and  washing  in 

love 
Was  followed,  alas,  by  a  snow. 

Which,  being  unmetaphored  and  prosed  into 

sense,  means  that  yesterday  morning  a  strong 

[  158] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

southeast  wind,  cooled  among  the  highest  snows 
of  the  Sierra,  drove  back  the  warm  northwest 
winds  from  the  hot  San  Joaquin  plains  and 
burning  foothill  woods,  and  piled  up  a  jagged 
cloud  addition  to  our  valley  walls.  Soon  those 
white  clouds  began  to  darken  and  to  reach  out 
long  filmy  edges  which,  uniting  over  the  valley, 
made  a  close,  dark  ceiling.  Then  came  rain, 
unsteady  at  first,  now  a  heavy  gush,  then  a 
sprinkling  halt,  as  if  the  clouds  so  long  out  of 
practice  had  forgotten  something,  but  after 
half  an  hour  of  experimental  pouring  and 
sprinkling  there  came  an  earnest,  steady,  well- 
controlled  rain. 

On  the  mountain  the  rain  soon  turned  to 
snow  and  some  half-melted  flakes  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  valley.  This  morning  Starr  King 
and  Tissiack  and  all  the  upper  valley  are  white. 

[1873.] 

[Beginning  of  letter  missing.] 
I  had  a  grand  ramble  in  the  deep  snow  out 
side  the  valley  and  discovered  one  beautiful 
[  i59] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

truth  concerning  snow-structure  and  three  con 
cerning  the  forms  of  forest  trees. 

These  earthquakes  have  made  me  immensely 
rich.  I  had  long  been  aware  of  the  life  and  gentle 
tenderness  of  the  rocks,  and,  instead  of  walk 
ing  upon  them  as  unfeeling  surfaces,  began  to 
regard  them  as  a  transparent  sky.  Now  they 
have  spoken  with  audible  voice  and  pulsed  with 
common  motion.  This  very  instant,  just  as  my 
pen  reached  "and"  on  the  third  line  above,  my 
cabin  creaked  with  a  sharp  shock  and  the  oil 
waved  in  my  lamp. 

We  had  several  shocks  last  night.  I  would 
like  to  go  somewhere  on  the  west  South  Ameri 
can  coast  to  study  earthquakes.  I  think  I  could 
invent  some  experimental  apparatus  whereby 
their  complicated  phenomena  could  be  sepa 
rated  and  read,  but  I  have  some  years  of  ice 
on  hand.  JT  is  most  ennobling  to  find  and  feel 
that  we  are  constructed  with  reference  to  these 
noble  storms,  so  as  to  draw  unspeakable  enjoy 
ment  from  them.  Are  we  not  rich  when  our 
six-foot  column  of  substance  sponges  up  heaven 
[  160] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

above  and  earth  beneath  into  its  pores  ?  Aye, 
we  have  chambers  in  us  the  right  shape  for 
earthquakes.  Churches  and  the  schools  lisp 
limpingly,  painfully,  of  man's  capabilities,  pos 
sibilities,  and  fussy  developing  nostrums  of 
duties,  but  if  the  human  flock,  together  with 
their  Rev/s  and  double  L-D  shepherds,  would 
go  wild  themselves,  they  would  discover  with 
out  Euclid  that  the  solid  contents  of  a  human 
soul  is  the  whole  world. 

Our  streams  are  fast  obtaining  their  highest 
power;  warm  nights  and  days  are  making  the 
high  mountain  snow  into  snow  avalanches  and 
snow-falls;  violets,  blue,  white,  and  yellow, 
abound ;  butterflies  [flit]  through  the  meadows ; 
and  mirror  shadows  reveal  new  heavens  and 
new  earths  everywhere. 

Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and  all  the  boys 
and  to  McChesney  and  the  brotherhood. 

Cordially, 

J.  MUIR. 


[  161  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Independence, 
October  i6th,  1873. 

All  of  my  season's  mountain  work  is  done. 
I  have  just  come  down  from  Mt.  Whitney  and 
the  newly  discovered  mountain  five  miles  north 
west  of  Whitney,  and  now  our  journey  is  a 
simple  saunter  along  the  base  of  the  range  to 
Tahoe,  where  we  will  arrive  about  the  end  of 
the  month  or  a  few  days  earlier. 

I  have  seen  a  good  deal  more  of  the  high 
mountain  region  about  the  head  of  Kings  and 
Kern  rivers  than  I  expected  to  do  in  so  short 
and  so  late  a  time. 

Two  weeks  ago  I  left  the  Doctor  and  Billie 
in  the  Kings  River  Yosemite,  and  set  out  for 
Mt.  Tyndall  and  adjacent  mountains  and 
canons.  I  ascended  Tyndall  and  ran  down  into 
the  Kern  River  Canon  and  climbed  some  name 
less  mountains  between  Tyndall  and  Whitney, 
and  thus  gained  a  pretty  good  general  idea 
of  the  region.  After  crossing  the  range  by  the 
Kearsarge  Pass,  I  again  left  the  Doctor  and 
Bill  and  pushed  southward  along  the  range  and 
[  162  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

northward  and  up  Cottonwood  Creek  to  Mt. 
Whitney,  then  over  to  the  Kern  Canons  again 
and  up  to  the  new  "highest"  peak,  which  I  did 
not  ascend,  as  there  was  no  one  to  attend  to  my 
horse.  Thus  you  see  I  have  rambled  this  high 
est  portion  of  the  Sierra  pretty  thoroughly, 
though  hastily.  I  spent  a  night  without  fire 
or  food  in  a  very  icy  wind-storm  on  one  of  the 
spires  of  the  new  highest  peak  by  some  called 
Fisherman's  Peak.  That  I  am  already  quite 
recovered  from  the  tremendous  exposure  proves 
that  I  cannot  be  killed  in  any  such  manner.  On 
the  day  previous  I  climbed  two  mountains,  mak 
ing  over  10,000  feet  of  altitude. 

I  saw  no  mountains  in  all  this  grand  region 
that  appeared  at  all  inaccessible  to  a  moun 
taineer.  Give  me  a  summer  and  a  bunch  of 
matches  and  a  sack  of  meal,  and  I  will  climb 
every  mountain  in  the  region. 

I  have  passed  through  the  Lone  Pine  and  noted 
the  Yosemite  and  local  subsidences  accomplished 
by  the  earthquakes.     The  bunchy  bush  Com 
posite  of  Owen's  Valley  are  intensely  glorious. 
[  163] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  got  back  from  Whitney  this  P.M.  How 
I  shall  sleep!  My  life  rose  wavelike  with 
those  lofty  granite  waves ;  now  it  may  wearily 
float  for  a  time  along  the  smooth,  flowery 
plain. 

It  seems  that  this  new  Fisherman's  Peak  is 
causing  some  stir  in  the  newspapers.  If  I  feel 
writeful,  I  will  send  you  a  sketch  of  the  region 
for  the  "Overland/' 

Love  to  all  my  friends. 

Ever  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

[1873.] 

After  Clark's  departure  a  week  ago  we  climbed 
the  divide  between  the  south  fork  of  the  San 
Joaquin  and  Kings  River.  I  scanned  the  vast 
landscape  on  which  the  ice  had  written  won 
drous  things.  After  a  short  scientific  feast  I 
decided  to  attempt  entering  the  valley  of  the 
west  branch  of  the  north  fork,  which  we  did, 
following  the  bottom  of  the  valley  for  about 
10  miles.  Then  we  were  compelled  to  ascend 
[  164] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  west  side  of  the  canon  into  the  forest.  About 
6  miles  farther  down  we  made  out  to  reenter 
the  canon,  where  there  is  a  Yosemite  valley, 
and  by  hard  efforts  succeeded  in  getting  out  on 
the  opposite  side  and  reaching  the  divide  be 
tween  the  east  fork  and  the  middle  fork.  We 
then  followed  the  top  of  the  divide  nearly  to 
the  confluence  of  the  east  fork  with  the  trunk 
and  crossed  the  main  river  yesterday,  and  are 
now  in  the  pines  again,  over  all  the  wildest  and 
most  impracticable  portions  of  our  journey.  In 
descending  the  divide  of  the  main  Kings  River 
we  made  a  descent  of  near  7000  feet  down, 
clear  down  with  a  vengeance,  to  the  hot  pineless 
foot-hills.  We  rose  again,  and  it  was  a  most 
grateful  resurrection.  Last  night  I  watched  the 
writing  of  the  spirey  pines  on  the  sky  gray  with 
stars,  and  if  you  had  been  here  I  would  have  said, 
Look,  etc. 

Last  night,  when  the  Doctor  and  I  were  bed- 
building,  discussing  as  usual  the  goodnesses 
and  badnesses  of  boughy  mountain  beds,  we 
were  astounded  by  the  appearance  of  two  pros- 
[  165  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

pectors  coming  through  the  mountain  rye.  By 
them  I  send  this  note. 

To-day  we  will  reach  some  of  the  sequoias 
near  Thomas'  Mill  (vide  map  of  Geological 
Survey),  and  in  two  or  three  more  days  will  be 
in  the  canon  of  the  south  fork  of  Kings  River. 
If  the  weather  appears  tranquil  when  we  reach 
the  summit  of  the  range,  I  may  set  out  among 
the  glaciers  for  a  few  days,  but  if  otherwise  I 
shall  push  hastily  for  the  Owen's  River  plains 
and  thence  up  to  Tahoe,  etc.  I  am  working 
hard  and  shall  not  feel  easy  until  I  am  on  the 
other  side  beyond  the  reach  of  early  snow 
storms.  Not  that  I  fear  snowstorms  for  myself, 
but  the  poor  animals  would  die  or  suffer. 

The  Doctor's  duster  and  fly-net  are  safe,  and 
therefore  he.  Billy  is  in  good  spirits,  apt  to 
teach  drawing  in  and  out  of  season. 

Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and  the  boys 
and  Morris  and  Keith,  etc. 

Ever  yours  truly, 

JOHN  MUIR. 


1 66 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Tahoe  City, 
November  3rd,  [1873.] 

MY  DEAR  FRIENDS  DR.  AND  MRS.  CARR,  — 
I  received  the  news  of  your  terrible  bereave 
ment  a  few  moments  ago,  and  can  only  say 
that  you  have  my  heart  sympathy  and  prayer 
that  our  Father  may  sustain  and  soothe  you. 

Dr.  Kellogg  and  Billy  Simms  left  me  a  week 
ago  at  Mono,  going  directly  to  Yosemite.  I 
reached  this  queen  of  lakes,  two  days  ago  and 
rode  down  around  the  shore  on  the  east  side. 
Will  continue  on  around  up  the  west  coast  home 
ward  through  Lake  and  Hope  valleys  and  over 
the  Sierra  to  Yosemite  by  the  Virginia  Creek 
trail,  or  Sonora  road  if  much  snow  should  fall. 
Will  reach  Yosemite  in  about  a  week. 

Somehow  I  had  no  hopes  of  meeting  you 
here.  I  could  not  hear  you  or  see  you,  yet  you 
shared  all  of  my  highest  pleasures,  as  I  saun 
tered  through  the  piney  woods,  pausing  count 
less  times  to  absorb  the  blue  glimpses  of  the 
lake,  all  so  heavenly  clean,  so  terrestrial  yet  so 
openly  spiritual.  I  wish,  my  dear,  dear  friends, 
[  167  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

that  you  could  share  this  divine  day  with  me 
here.  The  soul  of  Indian  summer  is  brooding 
this  blue  water,  and  it  enters  one's  being  as 
nothing  else  does.  Tahoe  is  surely  not  one  but 
many.  As  I  curve  around  its  heads  and  bays 
and  look  far  out  on  its  level  sky  fairly  tinted 
and  fading  in  pensive  air,  I  am  reminded  of  all 
the  mountain  lakes  I  ever  knew,  as  if  this  were 
a  kind  of  water  heaven  to  which  they  all  had 
come. 

Yosemite  Valley, 

October  yth,  1874. 

I  expected  to  have  been  among  the  foot-hill 
drift  long  ago,  but  the  mountains  fairly  seized 
me,  and,  ere  I  knew,  I  was  up  the  Merced 
Canon,  where  we  were  last  year,  past  Shadow 
and  Merced  lakes  and  our  soda  springs,  etc. 
I  returned  last  night.  Had  a  glorious  storm  and 
a  thousand  sacred  beauties  that  seemed  yet 
more  and  more  divine.  I  camped  four  nights 
at  Shadow  Lake,  at  the  old  place  in  the  pine 
thickets.  I  have  ousel  tales  to  tell.  I  was 
alone,  and  during  the  whole  excursion,  or 
f  168  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

period  rather,  was  in  a  kind  of  calm,  uncurable 
ecstasy.  I  am  hopelessly  and  forever  a  moun 
taineer. 

How  glorious  my  studies  seem,  and  how  sim 
ple!  I  found  out  a  noble  truth  concerning  the 
Merced  moraines  that  escaped  me  hitherto. 
Civilization  and  fever  and  all  the  morbidness 
that  has  been  hooted  at  me  has  not  dimmed  my 
glacial  eyes,  and  I  care  to  live  only  to  entice 
people  to  look  at  Nature's  loveliness.  My  own 
special  self  is  nothing.  My  feet  have  recovered 
their  cunning.  I  feel  myself  again.  Tell  Keith 
the  colors  are  coming  to  the  groves. 

I  leave  Yosemite  for  over  the  mountains  to 
Mono  [?]  and  Lake  Tahoe  in  a  week,  thence 
anywhere,  —  Shastaward,  etc.  I  think  I  may 
be  at  Brownsville,  Yuba  County,  where  I  may 
get  a  letter  from  you.  I  promised  to  call  on 
Emily  Pelton  there. 

Farewell. 

JOHN  MUIR. 


[  169  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Sissons  Station, 

November  ist,  1874. 

Here  is  icy  Shasta  fifteen  miles  away  yet  at 
the  very  door.  It  is  all  close  wrapt  in  clean 
young  snow  down  to  the  very  base,  one  mass  of 
white  from  the  dense  black  forest  girdle  at  an 
elevation  of  five  or  six  thousand  feet  to  the  very 
summit.  The  extent  of  its  individuality  is  per 
fectly  wonderful. 

When  I  first  caught  sight  of  it  over  the 
braided  folds  of  the  Sacramento  valley,  I  was 
fifty  miles  away  and  afoot,  alone,  and  weary, 
yet  all  my  blood  turned  to  wine  and  I  have  not 
been  weary  since.  Stone  was  to  have  accom 
panied  me,  but  has  failed  of  course.  The  last 
storm  was  severe,  and  all  the  mountains  shake 
their  heads  and  say  impossible,  etc.,  but  you 
know  I  will  meet  all  its  icy  snows  lovingly. 

I  set  out  in  a  few  minutes  for  the  edge  of  the 
timber-line.  Then  upwards,  if  unstormy,  in  the 
early  morning.  If  the  snow  proves  to  be  mealy 
and  loose,  it  is  barely  possible  that  I  may  be 
unable  to  urge  my  way  through  so  many  up- 
[  170] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ward  miles,  as  there  is  no  intermediate  camp 
ing-ground.  Yet  I  am  feverless  and  strong  now 
and  can  spend  two  days  with  their  intermediate 
nights  in  one  deliberate,  unstrained  effort. 

I  am  the  more  eager  to  ascend  to  study  the 
mechanical  conditions  of  the  fresh  snow  at  so 
great  an  elevation;  also  to  obtain  clear  views 
of  the  comparative  quantities  of  lava  inunda 
tion  northward  and  southward;  also  general 
views  of  the  channels  of  the  ancient  Shasta  gla 
ciers,  etc. ;  many  other  lesser  problems,  besides 
the  fountains  of  the  rivers  here  and  the  living 
glaciers.  I  would  like  to  remain  a  week  or  two 
and  may  have  to  return  next  year  in  summer. 

I  wrote  a  short  letter  a  few  days  ago  which 
was  printed  in  the  "Evening  Bulletin,"  which 
I  suppose  you  have  seen. 

I  wonder  how  you  all  are  faring  in  your  wilder 
ness  educational  departmental  institutional,  etc. 
Write  me  a  line  here  in  care  of  Sisson.  I  think 
it  will  reach  me  on  my  return  from  icy  Shasta. 

Farewell.  Ever  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 
[  171  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Love  to  all,  —  Keith  and  the  boys  and 
McChesney,  etc. 

Don't  forward  any  letters  from  the  Oakland 
office.  I  want  only  mountains  until  my  return 
to  civilization. 


Sissons  Station, 

December  9th,  1874. 

Coming  in  for  a  sleep  and  rest,  I  was  glad  to 
receive  your  card.  I  seem  to  be  more  than  mar 
ried  to  icy  Shasta. 

One  yellow,  mellow  morning  six  days  ago, 
when  Shasta  snows  were  looming  and  blooming, 
I  slept  outside  the  bar-room  door  to  gaze  and 
was  instantly  drawn  up  over  the  meadows,  over 
the  forests,  to  the  main  Shasta  glacier  in  one 
rushing  cometic  whizz,  then,  swooping  to  Shasta 
valley,  whirled  off  around  the  base  like  a  satel 
lite  of  the  grand  icy  sun.  I  have  just  completed 
my  first  revolution.  Length  of  orbit,  100  miles; 
time,  one  Shasta  day. 

For  two  days  and  a  half  I  had  nothing  in  the 
way  of  food,  yet  suffered  nothing  and  was  finely 
[  172] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

nerved  for  the  most  delicate  work  of  mountain 
eering  both  among  crevasses  and  lava  cliffs. 
Now  I  am  sleeping  and  eating.  I  found  some 
geological  facts  that  are  perfectly  glorious,  and 
botanical  ones  too. 

I  wish  I  could  make  the  public  be  kind  to 
Keith  and  his  paint. 

And  so  you  contemplate  vines  and  oranges 
among  the  warm  California  angels.  I  wish  you 
would  all  go  a-granging  among  oranges  and 
bananas  and  all  such  blazing,  red-hot  fruits, 
for  you  are  a  species  of  Hindoo  sun  fruit  your 
self. 

For  me,  I  like  better  the  huckleberries  of 
cool  glacial  bogs  and  acid  currants  and  benevo 
lent,  rosy,  beaming  apples  and  common  Indian- 
summer  pumpkins. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  holy  morning's  Al- 
pen  glow  of  Shasta. 

Farewell.  I'll  be  down  into  gray  Oakland 
some  time. 

I  am  glad  you  are  so  essentially  independent 
of  those  commonplace  plotters  that  have  so 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

marred  your  peace,  eat  oranges  and  hear  the 
larks  and  wait  on  the  sun. 

Ever  cordially, 

JOHN  Mum. 
Love  to  all. 

The  letter  you  sent  here  is  also  received. 
Emily's  I  will  get  bye  and  bye.  Love  to  color 
Keith. 


Sissons  Station, 

December  2ist,  1874. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  fourth  Shasta 
excursion  and  find  yours  of  the  lyth.  I  wish 
you  could  have  been  with  me  on  Shasta's 
shoulder  last  evening  in  the  sun  glow.  I  was 
over  on  the  head  waters  of  the  McCloud ;  and 
what  a  head !  Think  of  a  spring  giving  rise  to  a 
river!  I  fairly  quiver  with  joyous  exultation 
when  I  think  of  it.  The  infinity  of  Nature's 
glory  in  rock,  cloud,  and  water!  As  soon  as  I 
beheld  the  McCloud  upon  its  lower  course,  I 
knew  that  there  must  be  something  extraordi 
nary  in  its  Alpine  fountains,  and  I  shouted,  "O 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

where,  my  glorious  river,  do  you  come  from?" 
Think  of  a  spring  fifty  yards  wide  at  the  mouth 
issuing  from  the  base  of  a  lava  bluff  with  wild 
songs,  not  gloomily  from  a  dark  cavy  mouth, 
but  from  a  world  of  ferns  and  mosses,  gold  and 
green. 

I  broke  my  way  through  chaparral  tangle 
in  eager  vigor  utterly  unweariable.  The  dark 
blue  stream  sang  solemnly  with  a  deep  voice, 
pooling  and  bowlder-dashing  and  an  a-a-aing 
in  white  flashing  rapids,  when  suddenly  I  heard 
water  notes  I  never  had  heard  before.  They 
came  from  that  mysterious  spring.  And  then 
the  Elk  forest  and  the  Alpine  glow  and  the 
sunset,  —  poor  pen  cannot  tell  it. 

The  sun  this  morning  is  at  work  with  its 
blessings  as  if  it  had  never  blessed  before.  He 
never  wearies  of  revealing  himself  on  Shasta. 
But  in  a  few  hours  I  leave  this  altar  and  all 
its 

Well,  to  my  Father  I  say  "Thank  you"  and 
go  willingly. 

I  go  by  stage  and  rail  to  Brownsville  to  see 
[  175] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Emily  and  the  rocks  there  and  Yuba.  Then, 
perhaps,  a  few  days  among  auriferous  drifts 
on  the  Tuolumne,  and  then  to  Oakland  and 
that  book,  walking  across  the  Coast  Range  on 
the  way,  either  through  one  of  the  passes  or 
over  Mt.  Diablo.  I  feel  a  sort  of  nervous  fear 
of  another  period  of  town  dark,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  silly  about  it.  The  sun  glow  will  all 
fade  out  of  me  and  I  will  be  deathly  as  Shasta 
in  the  dark,  but  mornings  will  come,  dawnings 
of  some  kind,  and  if  not,  I  have  lived  more  than 
a  common  eternity  already. 

Farewell,  don't  overwork;  that  is  not  the  work 
your  Father  wants.  I  wish  you  could  come 
a-beeing  in  the  Shasta  honey  lands.  Love  to  the 
boys. 

Brownsville,  Yuba  Co.,  [Cal.,] 
January  I9th,  1875. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Mother  Carr,  here  are  some 

of  the  dearest  and  bonniest  of  our  Father's 

bairns,  —  the  little  ones  that  so  few  care  to  see. 

I  never  saw  such  enthusiasm  in  the  care  and 

[  176] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

breeding  of  mosses  as  Nature  manifests  among 
these  northern  Sierras. 

I  have  studied  a  big  fruitful  week  among  the 
canons  and  ridges  of  the  Feather,  and  another 
along  the  Yuba  River  living  and  dead. 

/  have  seen  a  dead  river,  a  sight  worth  going 
around  the  world  to  see.  The  dead  rivers  and 
dead  gravels  wherein  lie  the  gold  form  magnif 
icent  problems,  and  I  feel  wild  and  unmanage 
able  with  the  intense  interest  they  excite,  but 
I  will  choke  myself  off  and  finish  my  glacial 
work  and  that  little  book  of  studies.  I  have 
been  spending  a  few  fine  social  days  with  Emily, 
but  now  work. 

How  gloriously  it  storms!  The  pines  are  in 
ecstasy,  and  I  feel  it  and  must  go  out  to  them. 
I  must  borrow  a  big  coat  and  mingle  in  the 
storm  and  make  some  studies. 

Farewell.  Love  to  all.  Emily  and  Mrs.  Knox 
send  love. 

How  are  Ned  and  Keith?  I  wish  Keith  had 
been  with  us  these  Shasta  and  Feather  River 
days.  I  have  gained  a  thousandfold  more  than 
[  177  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  hoped.  Heaven  send  him  light  and  the  good 
blessing  of  wildness.  How  the  rains  [?]  splash 
and  roar!  and  how  the  pines  wave  and  pray! 


1419  Taylor  St., 

May  4th,  1875. 

Here  I  am,  safe  in  the  arms  of  Daddy  Swett, 
home  again  from  icy  Shasta  and  richer  than 
ever  in  dead-river  gravel  and  in  snowstorms 
and  snow.  The  upper  end  of  the  main  Sacra 
mento  Valley  is  entirely  covered  with  ancient 
river  drift,  and  I  wandered  over  many  square 
miles  of  it.  In  every  pebble  I  could  hear  the 
sound  of  running  water.  The  whole  deposit  is 
a  poem  whose  many  books  and  chapters  form 
the  geological  Vedas  of  our  glorious  State. 

I  discovered  a  new  species  of  hail  on  the  sum 
mit  of  Shasta  and  experienced  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  violent  snowstorms  imagin 
able. 

I  would  have  been  with  you  ere  this  to  tell 
you  about  it  and  to  give  you  some  lilies  and  pine 
tassels  that  I  brought  for  you  and  Mrs.  Mo 
[  178  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Chesney  and  Ina  Coolbrith,  but  alack!  I  am 
battered  and  scarred  like  a  log  that  has  come 
down  the  Tuolumne  in  flood-time,  and  I  am 
also  lame  with  frost-nipping.  Nothing  serious, 
however,  and  I  will  be  well  and  better  than 
before  in  a  few  days. 

I  was  caught  in  a  violent  snowstorm  and 
held  up  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  all 
night  in  my  shirt-sleeves.  The  intense  cold  and 
the  want  of  food  and  sleep  made  the  fire  of  life 
smoulder  and  burn  low.  Nevertheless,  in  com 
pany  with  another  strong  mountaineer  I  broke 
through  six  miles  of  frosty  snow  down  into  the 
timber  and  reached  fire  and  food  and  sleep  and 
am  better  than  ever  with  all  the  valuable  ex 
periences.  Altogether  I  have  had  a  very  instruc 
tive  and  delightful  trip. 

The  bryanthus  you  wanted  was  snow-buried, 
and  I  was  too  lame  to  dig  it  out  for  you,  but 
I  will  probably  be  back  ere  long. 

I  '11  be  over  in  a  few  days  or  so. 


179 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Old  Yosemite  Home, 

November  3d,  1875. 

I  'm  delighted,  in  coming  out  of  the  woods, 
to  learn  that  the  Doctor  is  elected  to  do  the 
work  he  is  so  well  fitted  for. 

IVe  had  a  glorious  season  of  forest  grace, 
notwithstanding  the  hundred  canons  IVe 
crossed,  and  the  innumerable  gorges,  gulches, 
and  avalanchal  corrugations. 

A  day  or  two  of  resting  and  lingering  in  my 
dear  old  haunts,  and  then  down-town  work. 

I'm  sorry  about  Keith's  stocks.  Though  of 
scarce  any  real  consequence,  they  yet  serve  to 
perturb  and  spoil  his  best  moods  and  works. 

It  seems  a  whole  round  season  since  I  saw 
you,  but  have  I  not  seen  the  King  Sequoia  in 
forest  glory? 

Love  to  all.  JOHN  MUIR. 

1418  Taylor  St.,  San  Francisco, 
April  3,  1876. 

We  will  all  be  glad  to  see  you.  We  all  heard 
of  the  outrage  committed  on  Johnnie  and  hope 
it  might  not  be  so  serious  as  made  to  appear  in 
[  1 80  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

the  press.  Mr.  Swett  told  me  the  other  day 
that  he  met  a  friend  down  town  who  was  ac 
quainted  with  the  Whites  intimately,  who  gave 
it  as  his  opinion  that  Mr.  White  was  insane, 
had  a  brother  in  the  asylum,  and  he  was  as 
jealous  of  a  half-dozen  other  persons  as  of 
Johnnie. 

If  I  knew  Ned's  boarding-house,  I  would  visit 
him,  for  I  know  he  must  feel  terribly  agitated. 
The  last  time  I  saw  him,  he  was  rejoicing  over 
Johnnie's  steady  manly  development,  like  an 
old  fond  father  over  some  reformed  son. 

As  for  the  stranded  sapless  condition  of  polit 
ical  geology,  I  care  only  for  the  fruitless  work 
expended  upon  it  by  friends.  The  glaciers  are 
not  affected  thereby,  neither  am  I  nor  Cassiope. 

The  first  meeting  I  had  with  Mr.  Moore  was 
at  the  lecture  the  other  night.  He  seemed  im 
measurably  astonished  to  find  me  in  so  anti- 
sequestered  a  condition,  but  in  the  meanwhile 
he  is  more  changed  than  I,  for  he  seems  semi- 
crazy  on  literature,  as  Mrs.  M.  is  wholly, 
doubly  so  on  paint. 

[  181  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  will  show  your  letters  to  Mr.  Swett  when 
he  comes  in,  who  will  doubtless  be  able  to  deci 
pher  the  meaning  of  heads  and  tails  of  your 
bodyless  sentences. 

I  Jm  sorry  most  of  all  for  the  destruction  of 
the  "Teachers/'  thus  cutting  off  the  only  ade 
quate  outlet  for  your  own  thought;  but  hang 
it !  let  them  decapitate  and  hang,  they  cannot 
hang  Cassiope. 

Ever  yours  cordially, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

1419  Taylor  St.,  San  Francisco, 
January  I2th,  [1877.] 

John  Swett  told  me  how  heavy  a  burden  you 
were  carrying  of  work  and  sickness.  I  hope  ere 
this  that  the  Doctor  has  recovered  from  his 
severe  attack  of  rheumatism  and  that  you  have 
had  sleep  and  rest. 

Your  description  of  the  orange  lands  makes 
me  more  than  ever  eager  to  see  them,  —  in  par 
ticular  the  phenomenon  of  a  real  lover  of  Na 
ture  such  as  you  mention,  for  one  does  feel  so 
[  182] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

wholly  alone  in  the  midst  of  this  metallic, 
money-clinking  crowd.  And  so  you  are  going 
to  dwell  down  there,  and  how  rosily  you  will 
write  about  it !  Well,  I  hope  you  may  realize 
it  all.  Independence  in  quiet  life  must  be  de 
lightful  indeed,  after  the  battles  and  the  bur 
dens  of  these  heavy  years.  In  any  case  it  is  a 
fine  thing  for  old  people  who  have  worked  and 
fought  through  all  kinds  of  strenuous  experi 
ences  to  have  thoughts  and  schemes  so  fresh 
and  young  as  yours.  We  all  hope  to  see  you 
soon. 

Cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

July  23rd,  [1877.] 

I  made  only  a  short  dash  into  the  dear  old 
Highlands  above  Yosemite,  but  all  was  so  full 
of  everything  I  love,  every  day  seemed  a  meas 
ureless  period.  I  never  enjoyed  the  Tuolumne 
cataracts  so  much.  Coming  out  of  the  sun  land, 
the  gray  salt  deserts  of  Utah,  these  wild  ice 
waters  sang  themselves  into  my  soul  more 
[  183] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

enthusiastically  than  ever,  and  the  forests' 
breath  was  sweeter,  and  Cassiope  fairer  than 
in  all  my  first  fresh  contacts.  But  I  'm  not  go 
ing  to  tell  here.  I  only  write  now  to  say  that 
next  Saturday  I  will  sail  to  Los  Angeles  and 
spend  a  few  weeks  in  getting  some  general 
views  of  the  adjacent  region,  then  work  north 
ward  and  begin  a  careful  study  of  the  redwoods. 
I  will  at  least  have  time  this  season  for  the 
lower  portion  of  the  belt ;  that  is,  for  all  south 
of  here.  If  you  have  any  messages,  you  have 
time  to  write  me.  I  sail  at  10  A.M.,  or  if  not 
you  may  direct  to  Los  Angeles. 

I  hope  to  see  Congar,  and  also  the  spot  you 
have  selected  for  home.  I  wish  you  could  be 
there  in  your  grown  fruitful  groves,  all  rooted 
and  grounded  in  the  fine  garden  nook  that  I 
know  you  will  make.  It  must  be  a  great  conso 
lation  in  the  midst  of  the  fires  you  are  com 
passed  with  to  look  forward  to  a  tranquil  seclu 
sion  in  the  South  of  which  you  are  so  fond. 

John  says  he  may  not  move  to  Berkeley,  and 
if  not  I  may  be  here  this  winter,  though  I  still 
[  184] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

feel  some  tendency  towards  another  winter  in 
some  mountain  ice.  It  is  long  indeed  since  I 
had  anything  like  a  quiet  talk  with  you.  You 
have  been  going  like  an  avalanche  for  many  a 
year,  and  I  sometimes  fear  you  will  not  be  able 
to  settle  into  rest  even  in  the  orange  groves. 

I  'm  glad  to  know  that  the  Doctor  is  so  well. 
You  must  be  pained  by  the  shameful  attacks 
made  upon  your  tried  friend  La  Grange.  Fare 
well.  Ever  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  Mum. 

Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  August  1 2th,  1877. 
Pico  House. 

I've  seen  your  sunny  Pasadena  and  the 
patch  called  yours.  Everything  about  here 
pleases  me,  and  I  felt  sorely  tempted  to  take 
Dr.  Congar's  advice  and  invest  in  an  orange- 
patch  myself.  I  feel  sure  you  will  be  happy 
here  with  the  Doctor  and  Allie  among  so  rich 
a  luxuriance  of  sunny  vegetation.  How  you 
will  dig  and  dibble  in  that  mellow  loam !  I  can 
not  think  of  you  standing  erect  for  a  single 
[  185] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

moment,  unless  it  be  in  looking  away  out  into 
the  dreamy  west.  I  made  a  fine  shaggy  little 
five  days'  excursion  back  in  the  heart  of  the 
San  Gabriel  Mountains,  and  then  a  week  of 
real  pleasure  with  Congar,  resurrecting  the  past 
about  Madison.  He  has  a  fine  little  farm,  fine 
little  family,  and  fine  cosy  home. 

I  felt  at  home  with  Congar  and  at  once  took 
possession  of  his  premises  and  all  that  in  them 
is.  We  drove  down  through  the  settlements 
eastward  and  saw  the  best  orange  groves  and 
vineyards,  but  the  mountains  I  as  usual  met 
alone.  Although  so  gray  and  silent  and  unprom 
ising  they  are  full  of  wild  gardens  and  fern 
eries,  and  lilyries,  —  some  specimens  ten  feet 
high  with  twenty  lilies  big  enough  for  bonnets. 
The  main  results  I  will  tell  you  some  other 
time,  should  you  ever  have  an  hour's  leisure. 
I  go  north  to-day,  by  rail  to  Newhall,  thence 
by  stage  to  Soledad,  and  on  to  Monterey, 
where  I  will  take  to  the  woods  and  feel  my  way 
in  free  study  to  San  Francisco.  May  reach  the 
city  about  the  middle  of  next  month, 
r  186  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

Heard  through  your  factor  here  that  Miss 
Powell  is  worse  and  that  you  would  not  be  down 
soon.  I  received  your  letter  and  postal,  also  the 
letters  you  thought  I  had  lost,  via  one  from 
Salt  Lake  for  which  I  sent  and  one  from  Yo- 
semite  which  Black  forwarded. 
With  love  to  all  I  am  ever 

Yours  cordially, 

J.  M. 

1419  Taylor  St.,  San  Francisco, 
September  3d,  [1877.] 

I  have  just  been  over  at  Alameda  with  poor 
dear  old  Gibbons.  You  have  seen  him,  and  I 
need  give  no  particulars.  "The  only  thing  I'm 
afraid  of,  John/'  he  said,  looking  up  with  his 
old  child  face,  "is  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
climb  the  Oakland  hills  again."  But  he  is  so 
healthy  and  so  well  cared  for  we  will  be  strong 
and  hope  that  he  will. 

He  spoke  for  an  hour  with  characteristic  un 
selfishness  on  the  injustice  done  Dr.  Kellogg  in 
failing  to  recognize  his  long-continued  devotion 
[  187  ) 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

to  science,  at  the  botanical  love-feast  held  here 
the  other  night.  He  threatens  to  write  up  the 
whole  discreditable  affair,  and  is  very  anxious 
to  obtain  from  you  a  copy  of  that  Gray  letter 
to  Kellogg  which  was  not  delivered. 

I  had  a  glorious  ramble  in  the  Santa  Cruz 
woods  and  have  found  out  one  very  interesting 
and  picturesque  fact  concerning  the  growth  of 
this  sequoia.  I  mean  to  devote  many  a  long 
week  to  its  study.  What  the  upshot  may  be,  I 
cannot  guess,  but  you  know  I  am  never  sent 
away  empty.  I  made  an  excursion  to  the  sum 
mit  of  Mt.  Hamilton  in  extraordinary  style, 
accompanied  by  Allen,  Norton,  Brawley,  and 
all  the  lady  professors  and  their  friends.  A 
curious  contrast  to  my  ordinary  still-hunting. 
Spent  a  week  at  San  Jose* ;  enjoyed  my  visit 
with  Allen  very  much.  Lectured  to  the  faculty 
on  Methods  of  Study  without  undergoing  any 
very  great  scare. 

I  believe  I  wrote  you  from  Los  Angeles  about 
my  Pasadena  week.  Have  sent  a  couple  of  letters 
to  the  "  Bulletin"  from  there,  not  yet  published. 
[  188  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

I  have  no  inflexible  plans  as  yet  for  the  re 
maining  months  of  the  season,  but  Yosemite 
seems  to  place  itself  as  a  most  persistent  candi 
date  for  my  winter.  I  shall  soon  be  in  flight  to 
the  Sierras  or  Oregon. 

I  seem  to  give  up  hope  of  ever  seeing  you  calm 
again.  Don't  grind  too  hard  at  those  Sacra 
mento  mills.  Remember  me  to  the  Doctor  and 

Allie. 

Ever  yours  cordially, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

1419  Taylor  St., 

June  5th,  1878. 

I  'm  sorry  I  did  not  see  you  when  last  in  the 
city.  I  went  over  to  Oakland,  thence  to  Ala- 
meda  to  spend  a  week  and  finish  an  "article" 
with  our  good  old  Gibbons;  but  the  house  was 
full;  then  I  went  to  Dr.  Strentzel's,  where  I 
remained  a  week,  working  a  little,  resting  a 
good  deal  and  eating  many  fine  cherries.  I  en 
joyed  most  the  white  bed  in  which  first  I  rested 
after  rocking  so  long  in  the  rushes  of  the  Stock- 
[  189  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

ton  slough.  They  all  were  as  kind  as  ever  they 
could  possibly  be,  and  wanted  me  to  stop 
longer,  but  I  could  not  find  a  conscientious 
excuse  for  so  doing  and  came  away  somewhat 
sore  with  obligations  for  stopping  so  long.  Met 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allen  there. 

Smith  has  gone  this  morning  to  Shasta,  tak 
ing  Helen,  and  I  'm  terribly  lonesome  and  home 
sick  and  will  not  try  to  stand  it.  Will  go  to  the 
woods  to-morrow.  How  great  are  your  trials! 
I  wish  I  could  help  you.  May  the  Doctor  be 
speedily  restored  to  health. 

Cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

920  Valencia  St., 

April  9th,  1879. 

I  did  not  send  the  pine  book  to  you,  because 
I  was  using  it  in  rewriting  a  portion  of  the  Cali 
fornia  forest  article,  which  will  appear  in  Scrib- 
ner's,  May  or  June,  and  because,  before  it  could 
have  reached  you,  you  were,  according  to  your 
letter,  to  be  in  San  Francisco  and  could  then 
[  190] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

take  it  with  you.  It  is  entitled  "Gordon's 
Pinetum,"  published  by  Henry  G.  Bonn,  Hen 
rietta  St.,  Covent  Garden;  Simpkin,  Marshall 
&  Co.,  Stationers,  Hall  Court;  1875;  second 
edition.  It  is  an  "exhaustive"  work,  very  ex 
hausting  anyhow,  and  contains  a  fine  big  much 
of  little. 

The  summit  pine  of  our  Sierra  is  P.  albicaulis 
of  Engelmann,  and  the  P.  flexilis  Torrey,  given 
in  this  work  as  a  synonym,  is  a  very  different 
tree,  growing  sparsely  on  the  eastern  flank  of 
the  Sierra,  from  Bloody  Canon  southward,  but 
very  abundant  on  all  the  higher  basin  ranges, 
and  on  the  Wahsatch  and  Rocky  Mountains. 

The  orange  book  is,  it  seems,  another  exhaus 
tive  work.  There  is  something  admirable  in 
the  scientific  nerve  and  aplomb  manifested  in 
the  titles  of  these  swollen  volumes.  How  a  tree 
book  can  be  exhaustive  when  every  species  is 
ever  on  the  wing  from  one  form  to  another 
with  infinite  variety,  it  is  not  easy  to  see. 

I  have  n't  the  least  idea  who  Mr.  Rexford 
is,  but,  if  connected  with  the  "Bulletin,"  I  can 
[  191  ] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

probably  get  the  title  of  his  citrus  book  through 
Mr.  Williams.  Will  probably  see  him  next  Sun 
day. 

The  Sunday  convention  manager  offered  me 
a  hundred  dollars  for  two  lectures  on  the  Yo- 
semite  rocks  in  June.  I  have  not  yet  agreed  to 
do  so,  though  I  probably  shall,  as  I  am  not 
going  into  Colorado  this  summer. 

Excepting  a  day  at  San  Jose  with  Allen,  I 
have  hardly  been  out  of  my  room  for  weeks, 
pegging  away  with  my  quill  and  accomplishing 
little.  My  last  efforts  were  on  the  preservation 
of  the  Sierra  forests,  and  the  wild  and  trampled 
conditions  of  our  flora  from  a  bee's  point  of 
view. 

I  want  to  spend  the  greater  portion  of  the 
season  up  the  Coast,  observing  ice,  and  may 
possibly  find  my  way  home  in  the  fall  to  see 
my  mother. 

I  wonder  if  you  will  really  go  quietly  away 

South  when  your  office  term  expires,  and  rest 

in  the  afternoon  of  your  life  among  your  kin 

and  orange  leaves,  or,  unable  to  get  full  abso- 

[  192] 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

lution  from  official  woman's  rights'  unrest,  you 
will  fight  and  squirm  till  sundown.  I've  seen 
nothing  of  you  all  these  fighting  years. 

I  suppose  nothing  less  than  an  Exhaustive 
miniature  of  all  the  leafy  creatures  of  the  globe 
will  satisfy  your  Pasadena  aspirations.  You 
know  how  little  real  sympathy  I  can  give  in 
such  play-garden  schemes.  Still,  if  so  inappre- 
ciative  and  unavailable  a  man  as  I  may  be  of 
use  at  all,  let  me  know. 

Ever  cordially  yours, 

JOHN  MUIR. 

San  Francisco, 

June  iQth,  1879. 

Good-bye.  I  am  going  home,  going  to  my 
summer  in  the  snow  and  ice  and  forests  of  the 
north  coast.  Will  sail  to-morrow  at  noon  on 
the  Dakota  for  Victoria  and  Olympia.  Will 
then  push  inland  and  along  land.  May  visit 
Alaska. 

I  hope  you  and  the  Doctor  may  not  suffer 
yourselves  to  be  drawn  away  into  the  stream 
[  193  1 


Letters  to  a  Friend 

of  politics  again.   You  will  be  far  happier  on 
your  land. 

I  was  at  the  valley.  How  beautiful  it  was ! 
fresh  and  full  of  cool  crystal  streams  and  blooms. 
Was  not  scared  in  my  lectures  after  the  first 
one. 

With  kind  regards  to  the  Doctor  and  the 
boys.  Farewell. 

JOHN  MUIR. 


THE    END 


CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    •    S    •   A 


MS82A3 

x 


